


Stray

by Tormented_Gale



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-17 16:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3536423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tormented_Gale/pseuds/Tormented_Gale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Asch finds a child, he is left to make a choice. The choice he makes... well, can he help it if under all that gruff anger and angst he has a heart?</p><p>-- -- --</p><p>Shorts in a specific AU Universe, but steadily turning into its own continuous story.</p><p>-- -- --</p><p>Update: I did up the rating a little, though not for anything in particular quite yet. At some point I expect to be going into more graphic detail about a few things so I want to make sure the rating is appropriate. Thank you for the kudos and reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stray(s)

Asch is not Luke. He is thoroughly convinced of that, thank you very much. For one thing, he is not a naive child, and he can definitely hold a sword better. His technique, his skill - these are all one hundred percent his own. And if Luke were to just show up? Oh he’d give him a piece of his mind.

Of course, that is only if Asch gave enough of a crap to actually consider talking to his annoying replica, and at the moment, he did not. He stayed his course, his booted feet making quite the racket on the stone pathway laid before him. With every step he glanced in a different direction, determined to keep an eye on literally everything. With dusk upon the city, crime would no doubt be on the rise, and he had no interest in being jumped.

Daath was actually quite beautiful in the evening. For some reason it lost some of its pretentious nature and became pleasant. Even with the Oracle Knights running around, and his fellow Generals pestering anyone they could find for information, it was peaceful, at least for now. Asch breathed in deeply of the cool, night air and felt himself relax as the stone path became gravel. The hills out here were far more beautiful than the cathedral, and he had every intention of laying down under a tree somewhere and watching the night come alive.

Or at least that was his intention. He paused at the base of the hill, his brow furrowing. He could have sworn he heard whimpering, but a glance around him showed nothing of importance. Rubbing his forehead, he reminded himself that he really should take care of his health. Hearing things was clearly not normal. Turning away from the fading light, he started the trek up the hill only to stop dead again.

The whimpering was louder here, and this time he was sure he wasn’t hearing things that weren’t there. Nothing could make that pitiful of a noise and not mean it. With a groan under his breath he started to search the undergrowth, poking at the various bushes with the toe of his boot. It was possible an animal had gotten caught, and grumbling all the while, Asch knew he wouldn’t just leave it to suffer.

He flinched back when he finally kicked something solid, and he moved aside the thick, sharp branches to figure out what it was he had hit. What stared back at him was no animal.

Dirty, smelling like week-old filth and covered in even more of it, wild-eyed and shaking, lips pulled back from teeth in a grimace or a snarl, nostrils flared as if sensing danger and skin clinging to bone in an attempt to give this human being life. A child, no older than five or six, glared back at him, its body curled up in a little ball and back pressed into the branches clearly digging into his flesh.

Asch couldn’t help but stare. How had a child - where the hell was this kid from? A stray from Daath? Or something else?

“Hey,” he barked, not bothering to gentle his voice. The child flinched back as if struck, and Asch briefly regretted his tone of voice. Though it was still gruff, he continued with what he hoped was more calming, “Who are you, kid? Where’re you from?”

The child did not move, didn’t dare breathe, but his lips twitched a few times as if trying to speak. Asch waited, but after a minute he groaned and reached a hand out to the kid. The boy pulled away, deeper into the branches that were cutting into him, but Asch got ahold of his lower arm and managed to pull him out of the place.

Under his hand Asch could feel the boy’s heart drumming out a panicked beat. He released the arm, expecting the boy to run back home or wherever it was he was from, but he collapsed instead at his feet, and Asch stared up at the sky. Why had he bothered with this? His life didn’t need any more complications.

Still he knelt in front of the kid, placing his fingers with a gentleness he didn’t even know he possessed under the boy’s chin and raising his head. Haunted eyes, dark green, looked back with an expression bordering on terror and just this side of resignation.

Damn it!

“Where are you from?” Asch asked again, slower. It was possible the boy didn’t understand him, or was too young to. He motioned to the city sparkling with fonic lights down the road. “Daath?”

The boy flinched again when he said ‘Daath’, but made no sound aside from it. In the light of the fading sun and the rising moon, Asch spotted the bruises and cuts littering the kid’s skin, sunken and possibly infected. He pressed the back of his fingers against the child’s forehead and found it warm, too warm.

He didn’t know if it was his own experiences or some strange sympathy he had, but before Asch could even think about what he was doing, he was picking up the boy. He shouldn’t have been as shocked by the lack of heavy weight in his arms. Hoisting the child up against his shoulder, he tried to avoid looking into those terrified eyes and instead said, “Just hang on, okay?”

There was no struggle, not even a word of protest, even though Asch could tell just from the shaking that this kid did not want to go with him. 

“How long have you been out here? What’s your name?” Asch continued to question, but got nothing but silence in response. He let out a heavy sigh as he walked down the hill and towards the winding river. “Look, kid, if I’m going to help you at least answer what your name is.”

A soft breath, hardly more than that, and a single word left the boy’s lips, “Fi-... Sync.”

Asch raised an eyebrow at the kid. “Weird name,” he commented and set the boy down at the edge of the river. Sync just looked on ahead at the water, his hands clenching and unclenching in his dirty pants. When he didn’t move, Asch said, “Get in the water and clean off.”

Sync’s eyes darted to him and back to the water, and he slowly drew his legs in as if he expected to be struck. He shook his head.

“Why not?” Asch demanded.

Those small shoulders raised an inch and fell again, but the boy didn’t move. Asch ran his hand down his face, ignoring that he smeared dirt, and lost his patience completely. He tugged his own long tunic off and his boots and socks, leaving him barefooted and in simple linens. Stepping into the water himself despite the cold instantly working its way up from his toes, he crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the kid.

“Now,” he snapped.

That seemed to get a response, though not the one he really wanted. He didn’t intend on hurting this kid, not at all, but if Sync would start moving and doing things rather than sitting there it would make getting the kid back to the safety of his parents that much easier. Looking like it was the last thing he wanted to do, Sync edged himself to the water until his toes dipped in, and he shivered, his teeth clattering together.

“Clean what you can off,” Asch ordered. He didn’t exactly have a whole lot of supplies with him, but he grabbed his tunic. They’d have to make do. “Then change into this. It’ll be too big for you but it’ll at least be cleaner than what you’re wearing.”

Sync glanced at him, mouth open to refuse, but Asch gave him one glare and the boy shakily removed his shirt. Asch’s heart skipped a beat at the obvious signs of maltreatment all over the kid’s skin and couldn’t help staring. Scars, marks he couldn’t name, and a pattern he almost could swear looked like a fonic glyph stared back.

“What the hell happened to you?” Asch hissed, and Sync flinched, and he knew that was all he would get.

Asch stepped back out of the water as Sync hesitantly scrubbed at his arms with cracked fingernails. Soap or at least disinfectant would have been ideal, but Asch didn’t have any of it with him, and he wasn’t sure if Sync would use it or not anyway. He cursed his sympathy towards the kid. If he wasn’t like this, he could just leave Sync at the door of the cathedral and let someone else deal with him.

But now that he’d found the kid, he couldn’t just leave him. Others had done that to Asch himself. Hell, his own family had abandoned him. Now, seeing this kid beaten and shaking, he knew he wouldn’t be able to just ditch him after making sure at least some of his injuries were taken care of as much as he wanted to.

Sync let out a soft squeak of distress and Asch raised his head to find him cradling his arm against his chest. Stomping towards him, he reached and took the arm so he could look at it. Fractured, probably, if the intense bruising under his skin and the look of pain on Sync’s face were any indicators. Gently Asch rubbed the dirt and grime off to reveal the pale skin beneath, and he tore a piece of his shirt off to make it into a sling.

“Don’t move that arm,” he ordered. Sync looked down at the sling, considered it, and lay his arm carefully in the fabric. Satisfied, Asch once more left the water, and listened with his back turned to the quiet splashing and scrubbing. It was only when the sound stopped that Asch turned back.

Sync still stood in the water, his shirt gone and his good arm clutching the bad to his trembling chest. His head was tilted back, dirty hair flying in the soft breeze, and his eyes were closed as he let the moonlight bathe him. It was the first time Asch had seen such a look of amazement on Sync’s face. Gone was the fear, the pain, replaced with a sense of serenity that Asch had never seen before.

But the moment was quickly broken and Sync let out a choked sob, his chin falling to strike his chest and arm clenched so hard in his own grip Asch could practically hear the bones creak in protest. He rushed over and released Sync’s grip, feeling the boy instantly freeze.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he insisted gruffly, “and you’re not going to hurt yourself. Now put the tunic on and I’ll take you home.”

Sync’s head jerked up, his eyes going wide much like the moment he had met Asch, and he wildly shook his head as he tried to run backwards. His legs gave out instantly, but Asch was ready for it. He caught Sync by the elbow and hauled him back to his feet.

“What?” Asch demanded. “You don’t want to go home?”

“No home,” Sync whispered frantically. “Bad.”

“Bad?” Asch paused, his hand still holding Sync’s elbow. “Did they do this to you?”

Tears started rolling down Sync’s exhausted features, his nose running and lips trembling. He gripped Asch’s wrist with a strength the redhead didn’t even know he had, and shook his head again, his voice choked.

“No back,” he begged, “no hurt.”

Asch gritted his teeth and gently but firmly pulled Sync from the water. He sat the boy down on the edge of the river and after releasing him pulled the too-large tunic over Sync’s head. The boy disappeared into the red and black fabric, tuffs of green hair sticking out of first the arm sleeve and then finally the hole for his head, and all the while Asch could hear the soft sobs that the child couldn’t repress.

“Listen, kid,” Asch addressed Sync, voice annoyed and features harsh, though his hand was gentle as he manhandled Sync’s good arm through the correct hole. “I don’t know what your problem is, or where you came from, but if they treated you like this then you aren’t going back.”

Sync instantly stopped, his face blotchy and nose leaving a trail over his lips, but all he asked was, “Promise?”

Asch tried to keep back his groan, he did, but it still slipped out as he said, “Promise. Now stop crying. I’ll take you back to the cathedral with me.”

The child blinked, tears still slipping down his cheeks, and tentatively reached out a hand to Asch’s wrist. He flinched back several times, clearly expecting retaliation, but Asch let him do as he pleased. Maybe it would speed the whole process of getting rid of him to the right people if he let Sync have this.

Small fingers grasped Asch, tightly holding on as if it were the lifeline Sync desperately needed, and eyes peered up through grimy hair.

“Stay?” he asked, and Asch had no idea what that meant. So he shrugged and shook free of Sync’s grip so he could pick the child up.

“We’re not staying here, no. I said I’m taking you to the cathedral.”

Those same fingers soon grasped the front of Asch’s shirt, and he stilled when he felt the boy’s forehead rest against his neck and shoulder. The child’s body relaxed in his grip, warmed by the mutual body heat despite the fever holding tightly. Asch hoisted him up a little higher and heard a soft sigh that brushed his own hair against his cheek.

“Sync?” he said, and his words were answered only by quiet, occasionally hitched breathing. Asch let out a huff, but secured his arm around the bundle to keep Sync steady against him. He knew, though he wouldn’t admit it out loud, that he wasn’t going to just leave this kid to the orderlies or some soldier who wouldn’t give a damn, and he cursed at himself all the more for his weakness.

Somehow, as he started to trudge back to the base in damp socks and boots, the child sleeping peacefully probably for the first time in his life, he couldn’t find it in him to really feel upset about it. Maybe it was the soft word that he could still being heard spoke in repose, “Stay.”

Well, damn.


	2. Moment 2 - Strayed

The room itself was deceptively simple in its design. A bed, a desk, more paperwork than anyone ever wanted to see in their lifetime, and a small dresser were the only items of note, though hanging from the dresser was a small braided cord, faded and worn but still retaining just a little hint of reds and blues from days gone by. It was as much a home as he was familiar with, considering his own had been taken from him.

At the moment, though, his bed was not his. A small bundle, curled up in what he could only assume was supposed to be some kind of defensive position, tented the blankets, small tuffs of green hair just visible above the white sheets. If he didn’t know that it was a child under there, he wasn’t sure he would recognize it as living, not with how quiet the boy was. The child had been sleeping for two days, body too exhausted and in pain to fight its natural instinct anymore.

Asch stood at the edge, the blanket brushing against his knees, and frowned down at the kid. He personally thought Sync should have woken by now, but after bringing in both a fonic healer and a doctor and vaguely listening to what they had to say, he wasn’t as worried.

Why was he worried in the first place? He groaned and with a snap of his wrist shut the curtains to block out the light. The child did not so much as twitch.

For the first time in his life, he wanted a drink. He still didn’t know why he bothered helping the kid (of course he knew, but he wouldn’t admit it to anyone) or why he hadn’t just handed him over to one of the orderlies (they’d asked him; he’d refused). Now he was stuck with a wounded little boy who barely spoke and wouldn’t tell him anything.

Maybe once Sync woke up, Asch could get a decent answer out of him. The healer and doctor had gently bathed the boy, set his arm, and had attempted fonic healing, but the second the green fonons had come into contact with the boy, they had dissipated. It was just one more mystery to add to the collection. At least now the kid looked more like... well, a regular kid.

There was also an uncanny resemblance to a certain Fon Master that he had almost asked about, but he was too frustrated and annoyed to care at the moment.

He quietly closed the door behind him as he left, pausing in the hallway to lock his door. It wouldn’t be good if Sync woke up for him to go wandering around. Asch’s room was relatively safe if the kid didn’t try and climb out the window or something equally as foolish. He briskly walked down the corridor and headed for the mess hall.

Already it was crowded with soldiers taking their breaks or eating lunch. Arietta and Legretta sat together, softly talking with each other. Legretta nodded to him in greeting, while Arietta shrank back, her lips tightly pursed and arms clenched around her plushie. Asch merely nodded back and got in line for food.

“Oooh, chicken! And are those pastries? This day couldn’t get much better!”

Asch winced and internally groaned as he realized Dist, perpetually sitting in his chair, was behind him. He glanced back, hoping to avoid a conversation, but it was clear Dist wasn’t paying attention to his unwanted presence. Even Asch’s glare wasn’t enough to make him go away.

“We haven’t had a meal like this in forever,” Dist complained. The cook behind the counter was giving Asch a run for his money with the deep seated glare she was giving. “Van really should - “

“Don’t you have experiments to do or something?” Asch demanded as he filled his plate with twice the normal amount.

Dist ignored his comment. “What’s with all the food? Are you that starved?”

“I’m just hungry.” Asch hesitated at the sweets, then took a sweetroll and added it to his plate. Dist stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“You hate sweets.”

“I’m aware.”

“But you just put one on your plate.”

“Your point?”

Dist was suddenly in Asch’s face, their noses practically touching. His intense gaze was only averted when Asch shoved him and his chair back, nearly knocking him into the soldiers behind Dist. He stalked away, tray in hand, and headed back towards his room, bristling.

“Asch!” This time he did groan. Dist’s chair was soon floating at Asch’s side, who refused to look even in Dist’s general direction.

“Get back in your lab,” Asch snapped.

“What are you hiding?” Dist asked conspiratorially. “I won’t tell a soul!”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Asch responded and tried not to wince with how defensive it sounded. “I’m going to eat my food in peace away from you - is that a reason for you to keep bothering me?”

“You take twice the food, add a sweet...” Dist said, counting off things on his fingertips. He didn’t notice the twitch of Asch’s eye, or the clenching of his fists around the tray. “You’re rushing back towards your room, you came back in the middle of the night yesterday - “

Before he could stop them the words were out of his mouth. “How do - “

Dist grinned. “I have my ways. I know everything that goes on around here.”

“Oh really,” Asch said, a hint of a smirk on his lips. “Do tell.” Of course, the staff that had been with Asch wouldn’t gossip - it was the reason he’d chosen them for their help in the first place.

“I know you’re being sent on a mission, and that I have special orders from the Commandant himself,” Dist said smugly.

“But you still don’t know why I came back late.”

There was a moment of sputtering, then, “I-I have an idea!”

“I’m sure you do. And it’s probably insane. Go away, Dist, or I swear I’ll break your chair in half.”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

Asch set the tray down on the floor just outside of his door, turned around, and moved to grab the armrest. Dist let out an undignified squeak and took off down the hallway, babbling angrily to the empty hallway. Though it took a few minutes, Asch waited to unlock his door until Dist was gone, and let out a long sigh.

“You better be up,” he muttered as he opened the door. He picked up the tray and slid inside, letting the door close with a snap behind him.

In the bed the boy was sitting up, the blankets drawn over his lap. He wore simple clothes that the healer had kindly given to him, but they were too big on his thin frame. His bandaged, set arm was slung against his chest, fingers curled. Asch strode over with the tray and placed it on the small table beside the bed, where a bowl of water and a thin cloth remained from the doctor attempting to get the child’s fever down. Even now Sync’s cheeks were flushed.

“Hey, kid,” Asch greeted him, and Sync jumped. In the low light of the room, it was harder to tell, but there was still a glassy reflection in Sync’s eyes. Asch walked over to the window and opened a single curtain and a window. The fresh air flowed in on the breeze, rustling the fabric.

Sync said nothing, but Asch expected as much. Instead the kid stared at the plate of food like he’d never seen anything like it in his life, and Asch guessed he probably hadn’t.

“Eat,” he said. Sync continued to just look at it. He had to be hungry, if his growling, demanding stomach was any indicator. “Go on.”

The child licked his lips, cautiously reached a hand out, and picked up a piece of fruit in his shaking fingers. He squeezed it lightly, sending juice flying, and nearly dropped it in his surprise. Asch caught it as it plummeted towards the ground and placed it back in the kid’s hand.

“It’s a peach slice. You eat it, like everything else on the plate.” He paused, raising an eyebrow. “Have you really never seen one before?”

Sync shook his head, staring in amazement at it, before tilting his head back and sliding the fruit into his mouth. Asch almost laughed at the comic look of pleasure that briefly flew across Sync’s features, but managed to stop it at the last moment. This kid was a nuisance, not a source of amusement.

“Eat as much as you can, but don’t make yourself sick,” Asch ordered, and cleared his throat. The annoyed nature of the tone was still there, but at least now Sync was listening to him somewhat. Asch sat down in his desk chair and started eating his portion.

It wasn’t long before Sync was attacking everything that looked like fruit with gusto. He avoided the meats and the vegetables, instead choosing on focusing on bright colors and sticky touches. He paused when his fingers brushed the sweetroll, his eyes darting to Asch as if to ask permission.

“I hate them,” Asch provided helpfully. “It’s yours.”

Sync took the roll with reverence, curiously poking at the white frosting and licking it off his fingers when it started getting everywhere. When he popped the whole thing into his mouth, Asch jolted, afraid he might choke, but somehow the kid managed to chew and swallow. Sync’s eyes, looking less glassy and more aware, widened and a small motion tugged at his lips.

The kid was trying to smile.

That shouldn’t have warmed Asch like it did.

Damn it...

Apparently satisfied, Sync sat back and continued to lick what was left of the juices off his fingers. Asch shoved a napkin in his hands.

“Wipe your fingers off. Don’t make a mess in my bed.”

Sync did as he was told, wiping away the excess, and curled up onto the bed once he was clean. He kept glancing at Asch, but his eyes always darted away as soon as Asch returned the look.

“What?” Asch demanded, subtly wiping away at his lips in case he’d missed something.

“What name?” Sync asked, his voice a whisper and a croak rolled into one.

Asch blinked. Right, he’d never said. “Asch.”

“Asch,” Sync repeated. He curled into the bed and the covers until only his eyes and the top of his head were visible.

Leaning back in his chair, Asch looked back, watching Sync glance around the room. The kid had not been at all aware when Asch arrived with him, so this was likely the first time Sync had actually seen where he was.

“You’re in the barracks,” Asch supplied. “In Daath, in the Order of Lorelei.”

The more Asch said, the more color drained from Sync’s face. The shaking Asch had thought abated returned full force, and Sync looked like he was fighting the urge to cry. Without thinking Asch reached out and placed his hand in that now clean hair, ruffling it. Beneath the touch Sync froze.

“You were from Daath, then, right?” Asch guessed. He didn’t actually expect an answer.

“Z...” Sync stared to whisper. His teeth clacked shut as he closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Look, I haven’t hurt you, right?” He waited for Sync to shake his head. “And I didn’t send you to whatever hellhole you came from, right?” Another shake. “I’m not going to do either, alright? So stop acting like I’m going to.”

Silence. Asch pulled his hand away, thinking maybe Sync had fallen asleep again, and let out a huff.

“No back?” Sync whispered, and Asch gritted his teeth at how pitiful it sounded. The dread and fear permeating such two simple words was enough to tear into his heart, an organ he’d long thought dead. Asch clenched and unclenched his fists, getting his anger and frustration back under control.

“No. I don’t know what I’ll do with you yet, but I’m not sending you back. Ever.”

It was some small comfort, or at least Asch hoped it was. Sync stared at him, meeting his eyes and holding them for the first time. He gave a subtle little nod.

“Okay,” Sync said, almost inaudible. He shivered beneath the blanket even though it was more than a little warm in the room. Asch lifted the damp cloth from the side table and placed it over Sync’s forehead.

“You’re safe here. That probably doesn’t mean a lot from me - you don’t know me - “

“Asch not bad,” Sync interrupted, and chanced looking up again at Asch. The redhead just rolled his eyes. If only this kid knew the truth.

“Sure, whatever,” Asch said with a shrug.

Sync reached out hesitantly, touched Asch’s hand, and almost immediately flinched back, but it was purposeful, determined, and Sync’s own. Asch ruffled Sync’s hair again, then picked up the emptier tray.

“Next time you’re eating meats and vegetables,” he ordered. His voice had softened again.

From the bed, there was only a soft breathing, and Asch groaned. Either the kid was exceptional at pretending to be asleep, or he had legitimately fallen unconscious again without answering any of Asch’s questions.

Well, he had said there would be a next time. He could ask then.


	3. Stray(ing)

It was not the morning that woke him. No, it was the small hand smacking into his nose that more than did the job. Asch flinched away, rolling to his side to avoid the inevitable second blow, and only once he was standing at his own bedside with a dagger drawn did he realize he was in absolutely no danger.

The small child rolling into the warmer part of the bed  _was,_ if he ever did something like that again.

“Sync,” Asch groaned. He sheathed his dagger and attempted to shove his bedmate over. Sync resisted even in sleep, curling into the vacated spot and drawing all the blankets to him. Asch eventually managed to yank them out of his grasp and push Sync back to his side of the bed. The mattress was never intended to house two people, but with Sync being so small and young, Asch thought there wouldn’t be a problem.

The last month had entirely proven him wrong, and the inkling of guilt he felt at regretting ever bringing the kid in was slowly being eroded by the child’s… childishness.

That wasn’t to say Sync was a normal kid. Between the lack of healing that fonic healers could provide and the fact that he looked like the Fon Master, Asch was certain this kid was off. He was fed up with not knowing anything either.

He reached over and shook Sync’s shoulder. Sync shuddered and blinked sleepy green eyes up at the redhead before realizing that Asch was staring down at him and that he’d probably done something wrong. Again.

Sync rubbed at his eyes with his little fists, his back soon firmly pressed to the wall behind him. His stomach rumbled as it always did in the early hours of the morning but he ignored it and instead wrapped his arms around his knees.

For Asch’s part, he simply settled into a chair at the bedside and leaned forward enough to be just a hint intimidating. Sync had a tendency to be slippery, and was an excellent pretend sleeper, but Asch wanted none of that while he dealt with the brat.

“You’re going to answer some questions, got it?”

Sync blinked, shrugged, and finally gave a slight nod. It was better than the first time Asch had attempted this: Sync had barely responded beyond almost passing out and shaking heavily until Asch changed the subject. At least the kid was responding.

“Where are you from?”

The child hesitated, then pointed out the window. Asch followed the finger’s trajectory, but all he could see were the hills and homes of Daath and the vague figure of Mount Zaleho in the far distance. Any house was a possibility, though Asch guessed it would be in the darker part of town. He waited for Sync to continue, but there was nothing else. Sync tugged at the threads of Asch’s blanket and stared down at his actions.

“Why do you look like the Fon Master?”

The response was immediate. Sync froze, hand clenching in the blanket, and mouth opening wider and wider until Asch was certain the kid was going to scream. Instead his jaw clacked together and made a jarring, annoying sound. Sync wildly shook his head and clammed up completely. Asch frowned and glared at him.

“You have the same hair color, the same eye color - hell, even your faces are similar!”

Sync continued to shake his head, the aforementioned hair flopping over his eyes. It looked like it would just fly off if he kept up the motion, so Asch grabbed Sync’s face between his palms.

“Alright, alright, you don’t have to answer - just stop doing that.”

The silence was more than a little awkward, and already Asch wanted nothing more than to climb back into his bed and sleep for a few more hours.

“Do you know why you have a fonic glyph on your chest?” Asch asked, changing tactics by gentling his voice.

Sync looked up at him from under his fringe and shook his head.

“Do you have more than just that one?” Did Sync even know what a fonic glyph -

The boy nodded and patted his back over his shoulder to show Asch the other one emblazoned in the middle of his upper back. It was not at all an arte Asch recognized, but it was legitimate. Whatever this kid had been through, it had resulted in him being carved with glyphs, something Asch couldn’t even imagine. 

“Do they hurt?”

Another nod that became a shake of his head.

“Sometimes?”

Agreement, another nod.

“Do you like it here?”

Sync paused, looked Asch in the eye, and nodded fervently. Asch brushed his hand through his bangs, annoyed and exhausted and sure there was a reddening handprint on his nose.

“Asch not bad,” Sync said, as if this explained everything, and pointed at Asch.

Asch rolled his eyes as he always did when Sync said it and stood up to stretch. He was about to tell Sync to roll over and sleep a little longer when a knock at his door made him groan instead. He walked over and threw the door open, intending on ordering whoever was bothering him away.

“What?” he demanded, and was surprised to see Dist, chair and all, sitting just outside of the door’s range.

“Asch,” Dist greeted him, that annoying smirk in perfect place. “Who were you talking to?”

“Are you stalking me or something? Go bother someone else. I’m busy.”

“Busy doing - what the hell?”

Asch jerked his head to the side to find that Sync had left the bed and was standing at his side. The boy’s hand was clenched into a fist, his lips in a tight line, and he raised his other to point at Dist.

“Bad,” he said, and Asch for once agreed.

“Annoying,” he added. Sync nodded at his side sagely, like he was the wisest kid. 

Either Dist didn’t care about the insults, or something was wrong. Some of the color had drained from his face and his eyes were locked on the green haired boy. Asch’s heart started to pound. There was no way he was letting anyone take the kid from him. Pride, stubbornness, and responsibility ran too deeply in his veins to allow it, and he certainly wasn’t going to trust Dist with the kid.

“What are you doing with a Fon Master replica?”

Something short circuited in Asch’s mind, and he quickly looked between Sync who was trying to hide behind Asch’s leg and Dist who was steadily getting closer to the kid, hand outreached as if to grab his arm. Asch grabbed Dist’s wrist and shoved the other God General back.

“What d’you mean, Fon Master replica?”

“Didn’t you wonder why he looks like the Fon Master?” Dist demanded, exasperated. “Or are you really that oblivious?”

A replica. By all accounts Asch should have hated the kid on principle, but the child’s destroyed state returned to him in flashes, and he suddenly found this kid was an exception to the overwhelming rule. He firmly put Sync behind him, intending on drilling Dist and Sync separately for all the information he could get his hands on, and instead towered over Dist.

“Tell me everything you know.”

Behind him, he didn’t see the child cower at his tone of voice… or perhaps it was the subject material. Either way, Asch was sick of being in the dark, and if Dist had answers, well - Dist would give them up one way or another.


	4. Lost Stray

Dist, for all of his annoying habits, was at least a decent source of information when it came to anything scientific. Asch hated to admit it, of course, but even he had to begrudgingly agree with the overwhelming response of most people: Dist was not to be trifled with when it came to information. As it was, in his office that was overcrowded with vials, tubes, cables, and more liquids in beakers than Asch thought possible, Dist was busy extracting piles of papers from other piles. They looked identical to Asch.

“Not this… not this…” he muttered to himself, tossing papers about. His hand finally closed around a file that had large red text: “SECRET. DESTROY.” Asch raised an eyebrow but didn’t question why Dist had such information at his disposal. Honestly, if Asch thought about it, he wasn’t truly surprised Dist had something by all accounts was illegal.

“Here we go,” Dist sighed and scooted his chair over enough for Asch to slide in and read the first page.

It became more and more ludicrous as he read on. A dying Fon Master… seven replicas (seven!? how the hell had someone survived going through  _that_ seven times?)… a vague word or two about the failures, and a note about the final having all they (who was they?) wanted in a new Fon Master. He scanned down the page, but there was no mention of Sync by name.

“Where did you get this?” Asch asked, too interested to not ask.

“The caves in Zaleho,” Dist answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Asch almost missed the word ‘Zaleho’, but when he actually considered Dist’s words, he slowly turned to look at the scientist.

“What do you mean, Zaleho?”

“The volcano. You know, the big mountain with red lava - “

“Don’t patronize me.” Asch glared down at Dist and noted with a hint of satisfaction that Dist flinched. “Why would this be in a volcano?”

“For someone who doesn’t want to get patronized, you’re doing an awful job at learning anything,” Dist muttered. At Asch’s murderous look he hastily added in a louder voice, “All the replicas were taken to Zaleho after their creation. They might’ve even been created there, come to think of it - I did find some equipment in the caves. If they weren’t good enough, they were disposed of.”

Asch’s heart stuttered for a second at that. Disposed of? In a detached manner he thought it actually made a lot of sense - no one would find bodies in an active volcano. He understood the logic of the plan, even if he was sickened by it. Replicas shouldn’t have existed in the first place, but when they were born… didn’t it bother those who threw them away? Or were they like him in that they saw replicas as the trash they were?

And why was Sync an exception? Too many questions, some too personal to delve into, and far too few answers. Still, Dist had cleared up a few things, and the scientist (quietly gloating at Asch’s side) clearly expected some kind of gratitude or praise. Asch rolled his eyes.

“I’m taking this,” he said and easily grabbed the file before Dist could stop him. Dist sputtered, but Asch added, “You’ll get it back… eventually.”

“Don’t let anyone see you have that!” Dist hissed. “It was supposed to be destroyed after all the failures were tossed. I just happened to find the last copy, and if it gets destroyed, all the scientific data and notes go with it.”

“I’ll bring it back in one peace. Probably.”

Asch started walking for the door, listening to Dist shout and rant, and only paused when he reached the entryway.

“This will be useful,” he told Dist over the ramblings. It was as close as Asch was going to get to complimenting Dist. The room was suddenly (blessedly) silent, until Dist’s tight lips morphed into a self-absorbed smile.

“Is that gratitude I hear?”

“No, it’s shock at the sheer stupidity of whoever left this behind for you to find.”

Asch stalked out of the room, believing the whole conversation to be done, but a flying chair appeared at his side a moment later.

“So when do I get to examine it?”

“You don’t.”

“Why not? It’s my right as a seventh fonist!”

“You have no  _right_ over him.”

“Since when do  _you_  care about what happens to a pointless replica?”

“Since he asked me for help.”

Dist rolled his eyes. “So if a certain red haired brat -”

Asch turned on him and towered, his glare deepening with every moment. “That is completely different. Luke is a  _fool_.”

“And this thing is a child! Who cares? It’s not like they’re human anyway.”

Of course, Asch had thought much the same until he met Sync. The child stole blankets at night, cried into his borrowed pillow and snuggled into Asch’s chest when he thought Asch was asleep, could be more stubborn than any child Asch had met before him, and was as picky an eater as they came. Sync did everything a real child did, but was still a replica. The two facts didn’t want to coincide.

“You’re not touching him,” Asch growled and stormed out of the room, the file clutched in his hand.

The walk back to his rooms went by in a flash, and before he knew it he was standing in the open doorway, staring into an empty room. It looked just as it had, but it was missing something vital. Where was the kid?

“Sync?” he said, wondering if maybe the replica had been scared off by Dist. He didn’t hear a word or a sound, so he stalked the hallways. Night was rapidly approaching and if Sync managed to leave here and end up back in that thicket, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to find him before Dist or some other idiot did first.

 He checked every closet, every hallway, even every bedroom whether the soldier it belonged to was in there or not. At every turn he found absolutely nothing. His heart thudded harder and harder in his chest, his teeth gritting to the point of creaking.

The final place was the library, the only other large room Asch could think of. Everything else either had locks on the doors, or would’ve taken too much strength to open, especially considering Sync’s arm was still healing. He pushed open the doors and headed inside, looking between the rows and rows of books.

The Keeper of the Records stood at her desk. She nodded in his direction and kept typing, her attention clearly on her job. Asch tried to keep his frustrated groan in when he saw no sign yet again of Sync. Each row seemed endless, and the more he walked down the more he was convinced that someone could definitely get lost in here.

The final row was messier than the others. Stacks of books were piled around, clearly being prepared to be returned to the shelves. He cautiously stepped over the shaky piles and, laying in the center of a small circle, was Sync. He stared down, watching the small shoulders shake and shiver and the curled up position of the boy’s body.

Asch wanted to shake him awake, demand why he left, but all he did was pull the extra layer off his shoulders and wrap it around Sync, leaving the file on the floor beside him. The second he touched him, Sync jolted awake, his eyes snapping up to see Asch. At first it was clear he didn’t recognize who it was offering a warm shirt to curl up in.

“Sync,” Asch said, unable to keep the growl from his voice, and wincing at the same time that Sync flinched back.

“Asch,” he whispered and looked down, but not quickly enough to hide the redness of his cheeks and the tear tracks.

“Did you really think I’d just hand you over?” Asch demanded. Sync gave a one shoulder shrug. “I won’t. I already told you I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Sync’s eyes fell on the file laying beside Asch, partially opened. Any comfort he might have found in Asch’s presence disappeared as all the color drained from his face and he momentarily stopped breathing. He scrambled backwards, books falling in his wake and eventually on top of him, and he cried out.

“Stop that,” Asch reprimanded. He gently but firmly grabbed Sync’s wiggling ankle and started pushing the books away. Soon enough he had Sync wrapped in his outer shirt tightly enough that struggling was pointless and a waste of energy. Whatever fight Sync seemed to find had left, and he lay like a broken marionette against Asch’s shoulder.

Asch picked up the file and carried it under the small boy’s body. When he emerged from the books, it was to find an irate-looking Keeper glaring at him. Her face softened when she saw the child, and her eyes briefly flickered to Asch before she sighed and soundlessly motioned for Asch to leave. He didn’t argue.

He set Sync down on the bed and pulled the blankets over his shaking body. He had to be cold - the library’s drafts were almost as legendary as the size of the place.

“Look, Sync - I don’t know what happened,” though he was going to find out, “or why you recognize Dist, or how a Fon Master replica ended up being a living thing. I keep my promises, and I promised to keep you safe. Until you can take care of yourself, that’ll remain.”

He had no idea if Sync even understood him. The child remained motionless, curled in on himself and the blankets, and Asch resisted the sudden urge to brush the hair out of those tightly closed eyes. He had no idea he would have such a protective streak in him, but when he looked at those childish features, it was a little like looking in a mirror.

Someone should have done this for him. He was going to make sure someone did it for this kid, replica or not.

When it was obvious Sync was not going to speak, Asch settled in at the chair at the side of the bed and pulled the file over. He forced his hand to steady as he opened it, wondering what about it could have scared Sync so much. Were all the ways to destroy a replica in here or something? Dist had seemed more than a little excited, and that worried Asch more than subtle threats or greedy ambitions.

He read through the first page again. The notes were so basic, hardly more than afterthoughts if he really considered it. He started flipping through the pages, one after another, and with each word, each sentence, the black heart he thought he’d killed in his chest squeezed painfully.

_ND 2015, Ifrit Decan, Lunaday_

_Three is another failure. It does not respond to stimuli, pain or light, and has shown no capability in fonic use. It will be left with the other two in the holding cells while we continue._

_Four looks promising. It at least responds to basic commands, but the Fon Master appears unsatisfied, so perhaps we will try again. We are running out of time - I see it in his eyes. The Fon Master is dying, losing more of himself every day. For the sake of what will come, a replacement must be made._

The hand that wrote it left smudges on the paper where fingers had brushed the ink, and the scrawl was messy, but at least decipherable. More notes were scratched out violently to the point of tearing through the paper. Still others looked charred or singed, and others had coffee stains on their edges. Asch flipped more fervently between pages and stopped only when the same glyph he had seen on Sync’s flesh stared back at him.

_ND 2015, Gnome Redecan, Loreleiday_

_As planned, the failures have been disposed of, but one in particular has somehow managed to survive. I found it half dead outside of the maw of the volcano. It appears to have a will of sorts, though why or how I have no idea, so I wish to see what can be done with it. Number Five, or so it responds to, and though it has synchronization levels lower than I would wish, I cannot deny its physical capabilities._

_We shall try something, I think. After all, if this thing wants to be useful, who am I to throw away a tool?_

Asch clenched the document in his hand. He recognized that handwriting, the thick scrawl and loops, the meticulously dotted ‘I’s and crossed ‘T’s. Van had, of course, had a hand in this. It shouldn’t have come as a shock, seeing as Asch himself had been replicated by Van, but still. He had thought there was some decency left in him.

The process of the glyph, the description of each fonon burning into the screaming boy’s skin, the months of healing and near loss of life, the delusional fevers and pleas… it all sickened him. He tore the page out, crumpled it in his hands, and threw it at the fire, watching the flames rapidly eat a chapter of this boy’s life Asch would never allow to happen again. It wasn’t until the flames had destroyed it all that he turned back to the page and stopped breathing himself.

Flashes of excruciating agony, of being tied down with thick metal bands and a piece of leather between his teeth so he wouldn’t bite off his own tongue, of a soothing voice and a gentle hand brushing red hair from his eyes, of a body, so like his own, forming above him flooded across his memory. The file slipped from his fingers to fall softly to the ground. For a moment Asch was frozen, rigid, his back arched and his eyes tightly shuttered, and he couldn’t scream, but he wanted to so badly that it hurt to keep it in.

It had torn into him, stolen his fonons, his breath, his life, and turned it into another person. All choice had been taken from him, his body a puppet for Van’s use, and even now - was it different? A choked, half hysterical laugh bubbled out of his throat and he gripped his hair tightly, ripping pieces one by one.

A small touch, hardly more than a brush of fingers against his wrist, broke the spell, and he drew in a shuddering breath, and another, all with his eyes still closed. He opened them eventually to see two green eyes peering out from under a blanket, a hand extended tentatively to his arm. Asch felt the tears trickle down his face, the suddenness of the emotions rapidly firing through him too much to predict or comprehend, and he desperately tried to hold back the growing confusion and inherent hatred that firmly took him.

“Asch good,” Sync whispered, filling the air with softly spoken words instead of harsh breaths and harsher words.

“I’m not good,” Asch hissed back, but Sync gripped a little harder on Asch’s arm and shook his head.

“Asch hurt, but Asch good,” Sync said firmly. Asch glared down at him, willing that innocent face to just turn away, to leave him alone like everything and everyone else had, but Sync merely lay there with his good hand on Asch’s.

He lost track of how long they stayed like that, replica and original, sharing their pain silently through the physical touch. The file lay on the floor, forgotten for now, and the memories it dredged up lingered like a thorn’s bite. Eventually, Asch took the hand on his arm in his own hand and squeezed it lightly.

“Sync keep Asch safe,” the child said, green fringe hiding haunted eyes just as red did for Asch. “Asch keep Sync safe.”

Asch had no response for that, so he kicked the file under the bed. He couldn’t read anymore tonight, not about what was done or what he remembered, and he gently pushed Sync over to the other side of the bed. When Sync curled into his arms and his chest, and clenched little fists in his shirt, Asch found that he didn’t mind, not this time. Even he understood the comfort of another human being once in awhile.


	5. Stray(er)

This wasn’t at all how he expected to be woken up. He smelled something delicious that made his stomach rumble loudly, could practically taste the tea flavored with honey and sugar, and he blearily opened his eyes to try and find the source. Asch, apron on and hair tied back, was busy carrying a tray back, hands steady on his precious cargo.

Sync glanced at the window and marveled once again at the rising sun. There was nothing quite like it, and he hardly remembered any gentle warmth like this in the volcanic caves. It was reassuring to see the sun rise and set every day, and he loved watching the sky catch fire. He rubbed his eyes again and turned away, finding that Asch had placed the tray on a small table.

Squishy whitish-yellow things, browned bread, cups of tea, strips of meat - all of it looked delicious. He was used to eating blander things - the men Asch had brought with him insisted that his stomach couldn’t handle anything too rich - so this was truly a treat. Though he couldn’t name much of anything on the plate it all looked interesting.

“Eggs,” Asch said, noticing Sync was awake and pointing to the fluffy yellow stuff. The apron had been tossed over the back of a nearby chair, though the redhead’s hair was still tied back. “Bacon, from Kimlasca.” Ah, that was the meat then. “Toast, tea, and a sweetroll.”

Ah yes, Sync’s favorite food. There had nearly always been a sweetroll on the tray when Asch brought food back for them to the room. Sometimes someone else left a bowl of porridge and milk outside of the door, when Asch wasn’t around, and Sync was still surprised that Asch hadn’t simply forgotten him. Everyone else seemed to not long after they dealt with him.

Sync took a piece of the bacon and bit it, chewing the grizzle and meat thoughtfully. He liked the fruit and sweetroll better, he decided, but this wasn’t terrible. It was certainly better than most of the food that came out of Zaleho. Asch ate his own portion quickly and efficiently in silence, only pausing to take a sip of tea here and there.

Asch settled back on the edge of the bed and leaned against the wall, sitting perpendicular to Sync. The shared space was not awkward or unwanted; Sync hated being alone in this place. It was huge, feeling bigger than even the volcano, with its winding passages and many rooms. The only place that felt remotely safe besides Asch’s room was the library, and he had a tendency to get lost in there too. The Keeper seemed to have taken a liking to him, and often had to come find him in the bookcases of books.

Sync couldn’t read, but he could admire the beautiful pictures, the scrolling letters, the gold filigree on the spines. Leather and paper, the smells somehow as comforting as Asch’s pillow, and a place he could go if he so chose.  _Choosing_ in and of itself was still a novelty. He kept expecting for someone to throw him back in a cell.

“I’m leaving on a mission today,” Asch announced, jarring Sync from his thoughts. The boy blinked and stared at Asch uncomprehendingly. The other huffed and rolled his eyes like he did whenever Sync didn’t understand something.

“It means I won’t be back for a few days,” Asch continued. “I’ve arranged for one of the cooks to bring meals by three times a day, and you’re going to eat all of that food, got it? I know you don’t like anything that isn’t sweet, but that’s too damn bad. The vegetables and meats are good for the body.”

Sync was still trying to comprehend Asch’s first words.

“Asch leave?” he asked. Had he done something? Sync wracked his brain, trying to think of something he’d done wrong, why he was being punished, and came up blank. Asch glanced down at him and raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not leaving for good, idiot.” The name was almost affectionate, and Sync raised his head so he could see Asch. The man’s features were a little softer, kinder, and Sync let his shoulders relax a little. “This has nothing to do with you. I’ve got my own job to do - I’m a general, remember?”

The boy nodded. He remembered the way others bowed to Asch or saluted, just like those who had been in Zaleho who had saluted the man with bushy eyebrows and brown hair. They were completely different people, though. For one thing, Sync liked Asch a lot more.

“When back?” Sync asked, picking at the blanket unconsciously.

“The mission should only last a few days, maybe a week.” Asch frowned. “Don’t leave this room unless it’s to go to the library, and stay out of sight, got it? I’m not supposed to be keeping you around in my rooms like you’re my kid, but I’m not going to just let you go off on your own.”

Sync bit his lip and nodded again. Before he could start apologizing or wondering (not for the first time) if it would just be better for him to run and stay on his own, Asch ruffled his hair and stood up, grabbing the tray in his free hand.

“You’re staying here,” Asch insisted, and refused to look at Sync. The boy tilted his head curiously to the side. “I-I don’t… oh to hell with it…” Asch glared at the wall like it had offended him. “I don’t mind you being here, got it? So just don’t do anything stupid and that won’t change.”

It was the closest to being wanted around that Sync had ever heard, and his young face lit up. He very nearly  _smiled_ , which hurt a little since it was so foreign, but he nodded vigorously. He wouldn’t jeopardize this. 

“When I get back, I should find someone to teach you to read. Legretta might not care, or Largo…”

Sync frowned and reached out to tug on the back of Asch’s shirt. The customary glare he received no longer seemed so scary.

“Asch teach?” he requested, and Asch groaned.

“I don’t have time to teach you.”

“Asch teach… maybe?” Sync said, struggling to get his thoughts out in the limited vocabulary he possessed.

Asch clenched his fists, and Sync retreated into himself. There was always the possibility something he said would make Asch snap at him. He was practically waiting for a backhand to the face, or a scalpel to be drawn out. Asch had never hurt him, though the general always looked like he might lose his temper with little provocation.

“You’re as bad as I was,” Asch muttered under his breath. He shook his head and forced one of his hands to unclench so he could run it through his loose bangs. “Fine - I’ll figure it out when I get back.”

Sync felt the corners of his lips curl and he smiled at Asch. It was shaky and unpracticed, practically a grimace, but Asch sighed and shook his head and ruffled Sync’s hair again.

“See if the Keeper will read to you while I’m gone.”

“Sarah,” Sync said. “Keeper Sarah.”

Asch blinked. “Huh. Didn’t know she had a name.”

Sometimes Asch could be so silly. Sync shook a little and a weird sound came out of his mouth. He abruptly stopped, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“That’s laughing, or giggling in your case,” Asch explained. He carried the tray to the door and placed it just outside of the doorway. When he returned, he began strapping on the pieces of underarmor he wore and his sword. Sync watched in fascination as buckles and belts appeared and disappeared.

“Don’t get into trouble,” Asch ordered, and Sync gave a little nod. The redhead paused, flexing his hands at his sides, seemingly torn between walking back towards Sync or the door. He practically ran to the door and grabbed his pack hanging on the hook beside it. “Uh - see you.”

Sync watched Asch disappear and close the door, leaving him alone in the room. He waited, half expecting Asch to return, but after a half hour, an hour, he realized Asch wasn’t coming back today, or tomorrow, or the next day. His hands shook as he took in the silence, the only sound far away in the practice fields where the soldiers trained. He bit his finger to keep from crying, sharp teeth digging into his knuckle until he broke the skin and tasted blood. It didn’t stop him from continuing.

He had to get out of this room. The walls appeared to be closing in on him, the ceiling pressing down and making it impossible to breathe. He jumped out of the bed and ran for the door, throwing it open without thought as to who could be around. A glance down either way showed no one was in the hallway so he sprinted to the library.

The Keeper looked not at all surprised to see him, but at the panicked look on his face, she left her position behind the desk, gently took his hand, and led him to the books he had come to love. There, without a word, she sat with him at her side, and read to him until he had fallen asleep.

— — — — —

Voices. Vague voices, ones he didn’t recognize, buzzed around him like annoying flies. Sync shook his head, trying to get them to leave so he could keep dreaming. He had been a swordsman, destroying monsters and saving people, with Asch as his friend. They were formidable, but there was a monster he had been fighting that was overwhelming them, and Sync desperately wanted to know how the dream would end so he could keep Asch safe even in that realm.

But the voice was growing louder, and Sync blinked awake, drowsily glancing around him. It wasn’t Asch’s room, or the library. This was a place he didn’t recognize. All around him were machines that bubbled and chattered, louder than the humming coming from a man in a white jacket.

White jacket…?

“Oh, you’re awake. Good. Could you answer some questions for me? Dist likes his notes to be meticulously detailed.”

Awareness became a thing of the past. Sync listened to the blood rushing through his veins, the panic spreading through his awareness, the welts rising on his wrists and ankles and stomach and chest and  _neck_  -

Light enveloped him from head to toe, brightening his eyes until they shone like fonic stars. The man yelped nearby, flinching back and dropping his clipboard. Sync turned his stare to the man. If he was free, if he destroyed this scientist, this doctor, this  _menace -_ would he finally be safe?

The binds snapped. He sat up slowly, looking down at his hands, and let the song playing in his mind keep the fear and panic at bay. When he looked now at the man, a man who liked playing god like all the rest of them, he saw only an ant, and he raised his hands to point both at him.

The words spilled from his lips like poisoned honey, sweet as a child’s voice and cruel as an adult’s: “Akashic Torment.”

His body moved on its own. Strands of green light followed his fingertips in a mesmerizing display of power, his heart hammering away in his chest and his glyph lighting his skin on fire. Time seemed to slow, the clock’s hands ticking in reverse for just a moment, and Sync saw the widening of the other man’s eyes, the way his flesh tore beneath Sync’s hands, the stuttering breaths and the blood - there was so much blood.

When he blinked, it was over, and he collapsed to his knees, then his side, free of everything but drenched in blood. It soaked into his only clothing, into his very skin, and he stared at the face of the man he had torn apart, inches from his very own. The sound of slow clapping filled his ears over the white noise, but he couldn’t bring himself to care or to respond.

“Finally, you show some potential.”

It was the last thing he heard before all went black.


	6. (Not So) Innocent Stray

Asch wanted to just let his sword drag behind him. Every bone in his body ached and the wound across his back from a particularly nasty monster throbbed in time with his heartbeat. The healers had insisted he stay with them in their tent so they could continue their treatment, but he’d had enough of being coddled and annoyed. He briskly passed the caravan he had guarded with the rest of his fellow Oracle Knights, announcing their arrival as they entered into Daath proper.

“Thank you, sir,” the lead merchant gushed. He grabbed Asch’s hand and shook it warmly, though Asch yanked away as soon as he could. A sharp nod was his only response as he motioned for his men and women to disembark and return to the barracks. The merchants began their work of unloading their supplies.

Why had Van bothered giving him such a basic task? Honestly, a platoon probably could have protected the caravan better than him, though he was a little relieved he’d been there when they faced a hulking liger that decided they looked tasty. His men kept a respectful distance and let him walk forward, but he opened the door for them.

In silence they passed him, saluting as each entered, and only his lieutenant paused.

“I expect a full report in three hours,” Asch told him, and the man nodded before rushing off to begin.

Asch could practically feel the warm bath that he would soon be sinking into, taste the warm, homecooked meals. It was his home, no matter how much he yearned and missed his true home, and there were things he was grateful for. His footsteps slowed as he approached his room and he paused outside of it, realizing his guest was likely inside. Dealing with a kid right now sounded like the worst thing in the world, but he prepared himself to tell the kid to leave him alone while he bathed the dust and dirt from his skin.

Apparently Sync was in the library; he certainly wasn’t in here. Asch let out a sigh of relief and unceremoniously stripped of everything before heading to the bath. It was only midday. Sync spent most of his hours looking over the pictures in the books, and if he had done as Asch had suggested (told him to do) maybe the Keeper had been kind enough to begin teaching Sync to read.

The bath really was as heavenly as anything else. He sank into the water with a grateful breath and closed his eyes, letting the scent of lavender fill his nose and relax him. He normally did not take such luxurious baths, but even he had to admit it was comforting once in awhile to indulge. He scrubbed the dust from his skin and hair, wincing as he came across the wounds still healing. A bruised rib twanged as he carefully ran his fingers over his bruised chest and he had to suppress the shudder of pain.

Over an hour later he realized with some chagrin that he’d fallen asleep. The cold water made him shiver as he stood up and dried off before heading back into the main room. He kicked the dirtied clothing over to the hamper, but only once he had fresh clothes on did he take care of the task.

Warm, relieved, smelling relaxing fragrances, Asch felt immensely better. He debated on whether or not to find Sync first before he went to get food, but the boy knew how to acquire it now, and the meal had obviously been eaten that Asch had requested to be brought; there was no tray outside the door to indicate otherwise.

The dining hall was filled with soldiers again, some catching a quick early dinner, others playing cards, still others drinking and talking. Asch grabbed a few appatizing things and piled them on his plate, not really paying attention. He needed a good night’s sleep more than anything.

“Ah, General, back from your travels? How was your mission?” asked the man serving behind the counter.

“Busy,” Asch replied shortly and started away.

“General! A moment, if you please,” came another voice, and Asch barely bit back the groan in time before one of the other servers came over. She barely reached his collarbone, but he knew better than to mess with her. Everyone did.

“Sir, I have been leaving the tray outside your room, but it is full when I come to pick it up,” she said in an undertone. Asch’s brow furrowed. Why wasn’t Sync eating? Was he being picky again? “Sometimes there’s a bit of water drunk or a morsel taken, but... is everything alright?”

“It’s fine,” Asch dismissed her, quelling his own concerns. Sync was just being stubborn, the fool. Five days of eating very little was going to make him ill, and still he ran off to the library. Maybe the kid was’t used to eating much, but it didn’t mean he could subsist on bites. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Please let me know if you would like me to continue delivering the trays,” she asked of him and offered him a smile. Asch gave her a brisk nod and headed for a table, where he sat down with a thud. The wound on his back was having none of it; it rippled with pain as he dug into his food, though at the moment he found he didn’t care it hurt.

Sync wasn’t eating, disappeared to the library, and that had been going on for days. Technically Asch was not his keeper, but he had promised to look after the kid. Suddenly the food in his mouth tasted more like his namesake, and the watered down tea looked completely unappetizing. Asch let his fork drop with a clatter and groaned.

He was on his feet and stomping towards the library in seconds.

Inside it was as quiet as it always was. A few people milled about, stacks of books in their arms, and the Keeper - Sarah, wasn’t it? - stood at her desk. She glanced at him, dismissed him, and looked back again as if actually seeing him this time. With a crook of her finger she beckoned him over.

“What exactly are you doing with a child?” she asked bluntly. “Is he yours?”

“Does he  _look_ like mine?” Asch hissed. She nodded to herself, lips pursed, and brushed the hair out of her eyes.

“You are treating him well?”

“I’m not hurting him,” Asch snapped defensively. Really, was his reputation so bad that someone thought he would hurt a kid?

“Good,” Sarah said with a look of true relief on her face. “I had worried when he did not come to the library.”

“What are you talking about? He isn’t here?”

“No, a few days ago he was. We were reading together, just there,” she said and nodded to a secluded corner. “Fairytales, if I recall correctly.” Her eyes met Asch’s, and he was startled to see actual affection there. “He is a smart young lad. Wanted to start reading on his own.”

“He hasn’t been here in days?” Asch repeated. The throbbing sensation on his back was getting worse; his heart was racing.

“No, I had thought he was in your room. He seemed tired when last I saw him; I had him carried back to your room so he could rest.” Her sharp gray eyes narrowed and she took a step towards Asch. He almost flinched even though the counter was between them. “He is not there?”

“I’ll find him,” Asch swore through clenched teeth. He’d  _told_ Sync not to go wandering around! This place was confusing even to him, and he’d been working and living here for years! To a child the whole damn building would be a labyrinth.

He left without another word despite the Keeper clearly having more to say and rushed down the hallway. It reminded him of the second day Sync had been here, when the child had run and hidden in the library in the first place. Each room came back empty or with soldiers going about their routines. No sign of a green haired child, nothing to tell him any bit of information.

He searched the infirmary where he was accosted by the healers and forced to endure more of their fonic artes. Despite his protests and, once, a threat of physical violence, they managed to fully treat the slash in his back and the rib that had made breathing interesting. He refused to admit feeling better; the panic was doing far more than physical wounds ever had.

Asch lost track of how long he searched the barracks, the rest of the headquarters, and the cathedral. He had to stop though when he saw the Fon Master with one of his guardians, a happy young man that had to be a replica too. It hadn’t occurred to Asch that he had brought Sync close to another like himself, and he felt a growl building in his throat at the though of how easily these children had been thrown away, just like him.

Luke had never gone through this hardship; Asch could not see eye to eye with him. But these replicas? These abandoned bits of humanity? They he could almost understand. He rubbed his forehead, feeling a headache building. All he wanted to do was go to bed, sleep off the trip. First, he had to find Sync.

He eventually traversed into the scientific research areas of the Oracle Headquarters where he knew Dist spent most of his time. His heart skipped a beat at the thought that Dist might have taken Sync from his room while the child was sleeping. Damn it; Asch should have posted a guard, someone to look after the kid!

Dist was flying around in his modified chair, tapping on monitors and muttering inanities to himself. As much as the man was intelligent, he was mad. Asch grabbed the bottom of the chair and yanked Dist back to ground level while the other man sputtered and threw his arms about.

“Wh-What?! Asch, what do you want?” Dist demanded hotly. “I was in the middle of a very important experiment!”

“Where is the boy?” Asch hissed. Dist blinked at him, clearly lost.

“What are you talking about? What boy?”

“The replica boy!” Asch snapped and grabbed Dist by the front of his shirt. He was done playing this game. “Where is he?”

“I-I don’t know! I haven’t even thought about that, not with all this new data coming in from... everywhere else!” Asch didn’t miss the slip, but he also didn’t care right now. “You lost him? You lost a replica?” Dist started laughing despite the hand nearly choking him. “I thought he was attached to you at the hip!”

If Dist didn’t have him, where the hell was Sync? Asch released Dist and shoved him back, ignoring the renewed squawk of protest.

“There was an incident a few days back, now that I think about it,” Dist said smugly. “Maybe the kid was involved.”

“What happened?” Asch said, towering over Dist. Though the scientist gathered himself easily, his hands still shook.

“Some idiot was playing with something he shouldn’t and ended up blowing himself up. It happened down the hall - third door on your left. I always did tell Cray to not play with chemicals in such a small room...”

Asch missed the latter part of Dist’s speech. His heart thudding in his ears, he ran to the room Dist mentioned and looked inside. He stared at the blood stains on the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and all the furniture, perfectly preserved from whatever happened. The room stank of disinfectant and death, and Asch had to force himself to enter it so he could take a closer look.

Faintly embedded in the ground was the outline of a glyph, a glyph he knew too well. He traced his fingers over it to prove it was real. If this was what he knew it to be, then...

“I did not expect to find you here.” The voice made him jump, and Asch quickly stood and turned to find Van Grants standing in the doorway. The Commandant looked as imposing as always, tall and grand and powerful, but on his face was a smile that softened even those chiseled features. Asch didn’t believe it for a second.

“What are you doing here?” he returned. He hoped his voice wasn’t shaking as much as it was in his head. It was his fault if this had happened to Sync, even if the stupid fool had gotten himself into this mess. He was a child; someone had to show him what to do and what not to do, and Asch had taken on that roll, for better or worse.

“Looking into a curious event involving a child and one of Dist’s best aides,” Van said easily. Asch tried to keep his look neutral, to hide his turmoil behind the facade. “I had thought you would be working on your report for me, not wandering around the headquarters.”

“The report will be to you first thing in the morning, as usual,” Asch swore, his voice strained.

“What drew you down here? Certainly not the company of the scientists.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing. Yes. I am sure that is the case.”

Asch wanted to scream at Van, but it would do him no good. He admired and hated the man in the same breath. This was no someone to mess with unless he knew what he was getting into.

“You wouldn’t happen to be looking for the child, would you?”

He said nothing, which likely condemned him as much as words would have. Asch felt his hands curling into fists. How had Van...

No, Van knew everything that went on here. Asch should have known he could not have hidden Sync from everyone else for long.

“So you have been taking care of him? I see now why trays of food have been left outside of your door. Do you trust me so little as to not seek out my aid and advice? It was not so long ago that you did so for most of your troubles.”

“Is he dead?” Asch asked, unable to help it. It was as much a confession as anything.

“No.”

Asch’s head snapped up and he stared hard at Van, seeking the lie for what it was, but there was nothing but honesty on Van’s face.

“Come, if you wish to see him. Perhaps you can get through to him where everyone else has failed, or has been too terrified to do so.”

Terrified? Of  _Sync_? The kid was hardly a threat. Asch found his feet moving for him as he followed Van through the hallway and towards another set of rooms typically used for scientists’ patients and criminals waiting to be experimented on. He hated this area of the Headquarters. Just outside a room labeled with a ‘5′, Van stopped him with a hand on Asch’s chest.

“You know nothing about him, do you.”

Asch knew enough. He knew Van had had a hand in Sync’s salvation, if it could be called that - the smooth handwriting describing the glyph process could not have belonged to anyone else - but aside from the notes in that folder he had not yet read, he did not know anything else.

“That boy is capable of Daathic Fonic Artes, the artes of the Fon Master. The trouble is he is too weak to use them. I suspect you know far more than you should about his situation, though how, I do not know yet, but you are playing with fire.” Van smiled. “It was to be his purpose, after all.”

Purpose. It was all Van saw in people - what they could be used for, how they could be manipulated, how they could be morphed.

“Nothing to say? That is certainly a different reaction than I was expecting. Poisoned epithets are more your way.” Van glanced towards the bars set in a small window in the door. “I have thought to hand him over to different caretakers, since you are so busy.”

“I’ll take care of him,” Asch said firmly. It was the first thing he felt confident saying since this battle of words started with Van.

“Ah, well, since he trusts you, you may continue to take care of him, I suppose, so long as it does not interrupt your other duties. Train him, teach him, as I have you, and I will watch both of your progresses. Perhaps someday he may prove himself to be worth your trouble.”

“Like I was,” Asch snapped. It was not a question.

Van’s smile did not abate. “Yes.” With that, the Commandant unlocked the door.

Asch hurried inside and almost demanded Van leave, but the Commandant likely would stay wherever he damn well pleased, so Asch’s words would be meaningless. He hurried to the bedside, ignoring the bleak look of the room and the lack of basic necessities beside a dirty little bathroom off to the side.

“They had thought to experiment - Cray, I mean. He had seen Dist’s notes and interest, and thought to find out more on his own. Of course, it cost him his life,” Van said just outside the door. Asch ignored him.

Sync lay curled up in the bed, his forehead beaded with sweat and his body trembling faintly. Asch gently pushed the hair away from his eyes that were tightly closed and listened to the rasp of each breath. What the hell had happened? Sync was clean of blood, yet... Asch could smell it still. Had Sync really been the one to kill Cray? How?

“Sync,” he said quietly, and shook the other’s shoulder. Sync did not so much as stir. “Sync!”

The urgency must have reached through the fog of sleep. Groggily Sync blinked his eyes open, saw Asch’s, and immediately spilled over with tears.

“Sorry,” he rasped, “Sync sorry.”

Asch had no idea what he was doing. He knew Van was listening, knew Van would know what was going on in the cell, and found he didn’t give a damn. He wrapped his arms around Sync and let the boy sob into his shoulder. There were no words to absolve Sync, to take away the bloody massacre Sync had caused, and there was no erasing that memory, but Asch could do this.

He kept hearing Sync repeat ‘Sorry’ into his chest, the voice broken and lost and so childlike Asch almost forgot the boy was a replica. That seemed to matter less and less with each moment he spent with Sync, but that was a thought to explore later. Carefully Asch, keeping the blanket wrapped around Sync’s legs, lifted the boy into his arms. Sync wrapped his own arms around Asch’s neck and continued to hiccup little sobs.

“I suppose it must have been a surprise to him,” Van mused as Asch left the cell with Sync cradled against him. “I certainly did not expect to see you of all people caring for a child.”

“Shut up,” Asch snapped forcefully, though his grasp remained tight around Sync. He stalked past Van and started heading back up, all the while feeling the soft breath stirring the hairs against his neck.

“Remember something Asch - he was born worthless and forged into a weapon, just as so many others have been and so many others will be. Few will ever reach a state of worth. You know this.”

Asch ignored the words again and did not respond to anything until he reached his room and got Sync inside of it. He slammed the door shut, hard, and listened to the frame and hinges creak in protest.

Sync had grown quiet, his face red and blotchy and eyes focused on his knees. He flinched even when Asch gently forced his chin up.

“You killed someone?” he asked. Sync hesitated before giving a little nod in response. “Was he trying to hurt you?” Another nod. “Did he?”

Sync averted his eyes and shrugged, hands clenching tighter on his knees. Asch released his chin and instead sat down at Sync’s side. Instinctively Sync seemed to fight curling in closer and moving further away.

“If he hurt you, that’s reason enough to kill him,” Asch said firmly. Sync turned those bright green eyes on him, wide in confusion. “Are you still hurt?”

Though it was clear something was wrong, Sync shook his head and pressed his forehead again to his knees. He was still too warm, body shivering and shaking, and Asch knew he would only get a response if he got Sync well again first.

“I’m going to get you food - “ 

Sync grabbed Asch’s arm forcefully and wildly shook his head.

“Don’t go,” he whimpered. “Don’t leave Sync.”

Asch swallowed his inherent snap and instead took the hand on his arm.

“Later, then,” he agreed. Sync gripped Asch’s hand tightly in his own, refusing to let go even as Asch laid him down on his side. “If I give you something, you’re going to take it, got it?”

He picked up a small gel, ripped it in two, and offered half to Sync. The child took it in his freehand and gobbled it up in seconds. Not long after his eyes began to drift shut, and his body relaxed into the bed, but his hand did not leave Asch’s. Asch ate the other half and watched for the telltale sign of Sync finally resting.

“Idiot,” he told himself, though it was also directed at Sync. “Fool.”

Exhausted as he was, he found he could not rest, but he refused to look over Sync without the boy’s express permission. He had a feeling that was rarely looked at with anything other than disdain or lack of importance.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, and brushed a hand through Sync’s hair. “I should have been here.”


	7. Stray Dreams

_Sulfur. He’s heard the word often enough to know that it is an element, it is this scent, and it is a part of what comes out of the bubbling monster that slumbers so lightly beneath his feet. He has heard its roar of hunger and quakes with fear at every thought that this is it, this is the end, there is no escape. He does not know how many times he has stayed awake, his eyes refusing to blink in case between one moment and another he is taken as a meal._

_He chokes on the heat and shrinks in on himself, clutching his knees tightly to his chest. Whimpers, of pain or exhaustion or just sound, echo down the natural stone corridor. Someone else must be awake. When he next hears screams, he knows for certain more than one someone is awake, and they are being tested, and systematically speaking he will be next. Or probably will be. Sometimes they are inconsistent. Sometimes, they skip._

_There is always a pair of hands to hold him down, another to send each fonon through his body and it_ hurts  _and he_ cries  _but the man tells him to be silent and he cannot listen even though it is engrained him to do so. He does not want to be hurt anymore; he wants only to be left alone, or to die. Some sort of escape._

_He shivers, and opens his eyes, and screams and screams and screams until his voice simply breaks, and he thought he had escaped, fled to wilderness and moonlight and harsh stones and bubbling brooks beneath his feet. He latches onto the fragile, cracking hope that he has safety somewhere, far away, somewhere red but not the color of blood. It’s sunlight, warmth, protection, somewhere and someone and something, and he reaches for it though they pin him and he can’t - he can’t -_

_“Stop squirming.”_

_The pain is so much worse, and the words they speak fly right over his head in their complexity, and they take notes as they carve his flesh and trickle ice over his arm and fire over his knee and sound - sound - SOUND ringing endlessly in his ears and he has no voice and no escape and no one nothing there is no safety there is only -_

“Sy-”

_Bit by bit, knick by knick, nerve by nerve, fon slot by fon slot, moving up his body in a detached, organized_ scientific  _way that he can’t begin to comprehend beyond it hurts and he hurts and he’s crying - what has he done why are they - do they reason do they know does he what did -_

“-nc!”

_They do not mock him and they do not stop. Only the chuckles of the big man the scary man the man who makes the decisions and determines his fate every second every minute every hour every day make him feel something aside from agony ripping into every seam and tearing him apart until he is nothing more than floating fonons that are then forced to reassemble, bit and bit and bit and flies buzzing and eating at festering wounds and he is nothing but this and -_

“Wake up!”

_They shake his shoulders - he must be conscious, always conscious - and when they open his mouth and pour something that is slimy and makes him gag and he nearly throws it back up he panics and panics and panics and they pin him harder and harder and he hears barks and orders and he tries - he tries to make the lights and cause the pain and his body merely lights itself up like a flame burning too bright -_

“Sync, wake up! Come on, idiot!”

_Please please please comes the whimper over and over falling on deaf ears -_

_**He does not belong here. He does not belong anywhere. He -** _

Sync woke, sweat stinging his eyes and great heaving sobs choking him as easily as a hand around his throat. There was no hand, but it didn’t matter; the dream was so vivid, so real, and Sync knew without a doubt he had experienced it. Zaleho was blurry in his memory, all except the last few days in that place, but he still recalled specific points of torture that had gone on for days. Tests, they had always claimed, and demanded of him what they expected of a potential Fon Master. Each time he failed it was met with greater disappointment and righteous fury, for a failure for a fifth time was unacceptable. It was somehow his fault.

It took him a long while before he realized someone was sitting next to him, humming softly. There were no words to the melody, but Sync didn’t care. The music reached into him and soothed the recollected flames that gathered along scars layered beneath more. He felt a hand on his arm, not restricting him but holding it in place, a physical anchor to the world. Angry furrows with thin lines of blood welling up from them were all over his arms, and he curiously touched one with Asch’s hand still holding onto him. His breaths seesawed in his chest, but seeing the blood reminded him of one important thing: he felt this pain here and now.

His nails were red with his own blood and he wanted, was so tempted, to tear again into himself, but Asch reached out and gently but firmly took hold of his other arm before Sync could attempt it. Sync shook in his savior’s grip and bit his lips over and over, trying to remind himself he was not there. There was no sulfur, only a flowery scent Asch had apparently favored when he returned.

Sync focused completely on the tones coming from Asch and his little shoulders marginally relaxed. The music remained a soothing balm and reached where nothing else could until it abruptly stopped. Sync couldn’t raise his head to look at Asch. He truly was worthless, deserved all of it, all of the remembered pain. He was causing all sorts of problems for Asch, hurting the other’s chances to do his job. He was a nuisance, a throwaway, a - a piece of meat.

“You’re safe,” Asch said firmly, but Sync knew it was a lie. There were no safe places for him; he couldn’t rely on Asch, couldn’t rely on anyone, especially not himself. He belonged in Zaleho, a meal for the monster. At least then he could serve some tiny purpose.

“Not strong... no artes... nothing... no one...” Sync whispered, and he shook his head hard, squeezing his eyes shut. Something cool touched his arm and cleaned the cuts, but he refused to open his eyes.

“I’ll teach you how to survive,” Asch promised, his voice firm and brokering no argument, but that too was misguided and pointless. He was only doing it because that huge other man had ordered such a thing. Through the haze of exhaustion and pain and the clear memory of staring into the dead man’s bloody eyes and severed limbs and the fingers that had been ripped off, he remembered Van’s orders.

_Train him_ , Van said.  _He was born worthless._  He was certain that was what Van had said, and Asch was simply doing as ordered, but it would be so much simpler to just -

“Zaleho,” Sync breathed, and Asch froze with his mouth open, clearly prepared to say something. The redhead’s gaze bored into him.

“You’re not - “

“Throw away. Zaleho. Belong,” Sync insisted, and finally opened his eyes to face Asch. With fingertips stained in red he wrapped his own hands around Asch’s wrists and gripped them. “Take. Rid.”

Asch gritted his teeth and Sync lowered his head, fully prepared for the fist to swing at him, but all the General did was shake Sync hard. The boy heard his teeth clatter against each other and his bones rattle.

“For the last time, I’m not throwing you away!” Asch snarled.

Sync tilted his head back and waited, knowing Asch was furious. He had seen the General ream out a man for not filling out a supply order form and here Sync was, interrupting Asch’s sleep in the middle of the night just after he returned from a long, arduous journey. Now would be the time Asch would realize his mistake, see that Sync was as useless as a broken sword. No, he was worth  _less_ than even that.

“It’s too damn late at night to deal with this,” Asch groaned. Instead of hauling Sync out of the bed and throwing him out, he dragged Sync closer and promptly thumped the child’s head to his chest. He lay them both back down against the pillows, a stiff and trembling child in the arms of a powerful, irate general.

“Close your eyes,” Asch ordered. Sync whimpered, seeing instantly the curl of a finger as it descended upon his bleeding, newly scarred.  Asch shook him again and firmly grabbed Sync’s jaw to stop it from shaking harshly back and forth.

“Stop,” he ordered, his voice a low growl. Sync instantly paused and his trembling worsened.  _Surely_ , now, after - “You had a night terror. It’s a huge pain, it is clearly a bad memory, or a bunch - I don’t know, but you’re not wherever you thought you were.”

Sync knew fat tears were rolling down his face and staining Asch’s hand but the redhead said nothing about it.

“I have them too,” Asch admitted gruffly, and even Sync could hear the pain it caused Asch to have those words spoken aloud. “Sleep might not come back tonight, and that’s fine, but you have to try. You’re not returning there ever so let it go and move on. You wanted to learn to read, to write, to fight, right? Then prove it - stop saying you’re worthless and fight instead for your future.”

“Can’t,” Sync gasped, and Asch sighed and released Sync’s chin so he could run his hand through his own red strands of hair cascading down.

“I’ll teach you to survive. I’ll teach you so no one can ever hurt you again. Would you like that?” Desperation, grasping at straws, a chance to help, all of it pointless and wasted.

“ _Can’t_ ,” Sync insisted. The arm around him tightened and drew him closer to Asch’s chest as the other dropped several words Sync had heard in Asch’s anger before; he suspected he was not to repeat them.

“It’s night, I’m tired, and I’m not arguing with a kid about this in the middle of the night,” Asch said to no one in particular. Sync ducked his head anyway. “Just... can you close your eyes? I’ll even keep doing this if it’ll help. Just shut up for now and we’ll figure it out in the morning.”

Sync’s shakes were as bad as they had been, but Asch’s arm was secure around him and kept him close to the redhead’s side. He thought he felt a gentle swipe of a thumb across his back but chalked it up to the twinges of pain he felt from the glyphs on occasion. 

With his free hand Asch reached over to the drawer of his night stand, rustled around in it, and soon pulled from its depths a cracked, glass box. He flipped the lid open, wound the key with his teeth, and placed the box back on the table. The music, a tinkling melody that worked its way through Sync just as Asch’s humming had done, was soothing and peaceful and everything he desperately wanted. He clutched the front of Asch’s shirt finally and held tight, determined to stay anchored to the here and now and not fall back to the endless nightmares that hounded his rest.

“Now go back to sleep,” Asch said gruffly, but the hint of affection in his voice was enough to comfort Sync. He did not think he would sleep again tonight, and so he closed his eyes, held onto Asch, and listened to the General’s breathing with every rise and fall of his chest.

Safety was here, if only for a few misguided minutes.


	8. Found Stray

“Asch!”

Despite his exhaustion, Asch couldn’t help the little smile that voice pulled from him. He left the car and turned around only to end up with two arms thrown around his waist and a tight, quick hug. The affection was, admittedly, nerve wracking, but he wasn’t about to reject it. It was all for the kid’s benefit, after all, not his.

“Sync,” he said, “how did I tell you to greet me?”

Sync frowned at him, looking up from below, but backed up a few steps and gave a crisp, sharp salute. Asch nodded in approval and Sync relaxed. He looked healthy, vibrant, everything a normal child should. In the six months Sync had been his responsibility, the child had flourished. Asch proudly stood up straight and reached out to ruffle Sync’s green hair. Even the other soldiers, who were desperately trying to hide the smiles and chuckles at seeing their commander so relaxed and friendly, offered the child lazy salutes of their own.

“Did you work hard while I was gone?” Asch asked.

“Uh huh,” Sync said and from his pocket pulled out a single, folded sheet of paper. He offered it to Asch without a hint of fear in his young eyes.

Asch took and unfolded it to find a letter written to him. He blinked, the smile falling from his lips as he realized Sync had written the entire thing on his own, complete with scratched out and misspelled words. When he returned his gaze to the boy, Sync fidgeted, teeth biting at his lip nervously.

“You did this?” Asch asked to confirm.

Sync nodded. “’Cept for your name. Sarah helped.”

For some reason Sync still couldn’t seem to understand how to spell Asch’s name or his own, but Asch figured it would simply come with time. He ran his thumb over the  _A,_ so proudly penned and carefully wrought. The smile returned to his face.

“You did well,” Asch praised, and Sync’s face lit up. The boy grabbed Asch’s hand and started trying to drag him back without explaining what it was he wanted. “Sync, what?”

“Practice!” Sync announced excitedly. “Artes!”

“Not yet. Let me deliver my report to the Commandant.”

“Sir, we can deliver it for you, if you wish,” one of the other soldiers offered with a badly hidden smile. Sync looked on between them, a hopeful expression on his face. Asch hated that the boy’s eyes could do that puppy dog impression better than anyone.

“Fine,” Asch sighed, annoyed, and handed over the report. All things considered their mission had been simple - looking into and defeating a den of monsters that had popped up near Daath. Not a single casualty, and only minor injuries among his soldiers - Asch considered it a solid victory.

He let Sync drag him to the field they had been using as their practice grounds. Asch had forbidden Sync from leaving the barracks, concerned that if Mohs got wind of Sync’s existence the boy would be in danger. He had already observed the Fon Master, once so sickly in appearance, transform as if overnight into a still weak but more vibrant version of himself. It was impossible to know if a replacement had been brought in or if the Fon Master had somehow gotten better, but either way, Asch wasn’t going to risk the child he had taken on.

“Show me what you can do,” Asch said as he sat down on the ground.

Sync backed off several paces and began going through his stretches. Asch had taught him what he could of hand to hand combat, as swords and weapons had ended rather badly. Sync simply didn’t have the stamina or strength to wield a weapon heavier than a dagger, but what he lacked in strength he had in speed. The kid was fast, faster than Asch ever could anticipate.

He watched Sync move into the kicks, shoves, blocks, punches, throws, and movements that had become his main source of defense and attack, nodding his approval when Sync did particularly well. Six months seemed like such a short time but the kid had picked up on everything so quickly. Even his speech was improving into full sentences rather than just the few words Sync had known initially.

“Now the artes,” Asch directed, and Sync lowered himself into a crouch.

This was where the kid shined. Asch didn’t know how Sync was able to do what he could, considering the limitations stated in the document he kept hidden under his mattress, but he suspected the glyph on Sync’s back and chest was the driving factor. Sync moved and flowed like water, sliding between a back flip to an offensive attack like he had been made for it. The small artes he summoned were basic but solid, and as Sync ended with a spiral of earth and shouted “Stone Dragon Ascent!” he found himself smiling proudly once again.

Sync panted hard as he landed the attack and fell to one knee, his head bowed. His body shuddered as traces of light skittered across his skin. When he raised his head, it was to Asch’s smile, and the exhaustion seemed to leak right out of him. He stood up and bowed to Asch, sweaty and excited.

“You’ve been practicing,” Asch commented as Sync plopped down beside him. The sun streamed down and warmed them in the cool fall air.

“I wanted to get better,” Sync responded. He pushed his long hair out of his eyes. “Like Asch.”

“If you keep up work like that, you’ll improve even more,” Asch said. “I’m sure of it.”

“How was mission?” Sync asked, almost glowing with the showered praise.

“How was  _the_ mission,” Asch corrected him. “It was fine.” He tilted his head back. “Actually I was thinking of bringing you on one in a few months if you continue to improve.”

“Work with Asch?” Sync said, sitting up straight and staring into Asch’s eyes.

“Yeah, side by side. I think you’re almost ready.”

Sync quieted and let out a long breath. Asch watched Sync out of the corner of his eye, glad to see the kid no longer shied away from the strength and potential he carried. Really, if Sync could find a way to harness the power inside of him, he would prove to be a formidable foe indeed. It might be another five or six years before Sync reached that - his body needed to grow and he needed to keep learning.

Still, Asch had no doubt he was witnessing the birth of a soldier from the ashes of a broken child.

“Come on, we both need to get cleaned up,” Asch insisted. Sync pushed himself to his feet, wavering a little with exhaustion, but he had a smile on his face. Asch pushed him gently towards the main building and followed as Sync took off at a run.

He glanced over his shoulder and the smile disappeared from his face as he saw Van give him a swift nod. The Commandant looked pleased, and Asch had no idea how much the other man had seen, but it was enough to worry him about Sync’s safety. Van after all had few qualms about messing with a child - it was something Asch knew far too well, and he wasn’t about to let Sync go through any more torture.

No, Van wouldn’t sink his claws into the child. Eyes narrowed, Asch turned and caught up to the impatient Sync waiting for him in the doorway. He slid his facade over his face, hiding the sudden concern and anger from the child, but Sync was a master of reading faces. Sync took Asch’s hand, giving it a comforting squeeze, and gently tugged him into the building.

“Okay?” Sync asked.

“It’s nothing,” Asch lied, but he didn’t release Sync’s hand until they arrived at his room.


	9. Stray Choices

This was it. He was going on a mission like a true soldier, surrounded by moving caravans and men on horseback. A nervous thrill in the air had him shivering in excitement, his head whipping around in every direction so he didn’t miss a thing. Daath, when he wasn’t under constant threat or surveillance, was surprisingly beautiful, particularly the flowering trees that rained petals down on them. He tried to not laugh at the annoyed expression on Asch’s face.

“Sir,” one of the soldiers pushed his horse until he rode side by side with Asch, “we should be approaching the area mentioned. The report said bandits had taken a small village over and were doing as they pleased.”

“Understood. Has the advanced party seen anything?”

“Not yet, general.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Sir!”

The soldier rode up ahead, kicking up dust behind him. Sync covered his nose with his hand until it settled. Things were so peaceful right now he didn’t want to break the moment. His arms tightened a little around Asch’s waist as their horse gently walked along. It had taken a good few minutes before he trusted the animal to not up and eat him. Now, so high up and able to see so much, he couldn’t picture a better companion.

“Sync, when we get closer, I want you to stay on Hero’s back, alright?” Asch said over his shoulder. “I know you’re capable of fighting, but these guys aren’t like the soldiers you’ve practiced with.”

Sync furrowed his brow at the sound of concern in Asch’s voice. Did he anticipate danger? Looking up at the back of Asch’s head, he tried to picture Asch ever being in trouble, and simply couldn’t do it. Asch was everything Sync wanted to be: strong, proud,  _insurmountable._  Sync shook his head a little.

“Okay,” he said quietly. Asch patted one of the hands holding to his side and Sync smiled a little, the expression getting easier and easier to show.

“Stay with the rear guard,” he repeated. “If there’s trouble, hide. Got it?”

Sync nodded again and tightened his grip. He didn’t want to be separated, not when he could actually defend himself now, but he wouldn’t disobey Asch.

He licked his dry lips and tried to forget how the man’s face looked when his body drained of blood. Asch had asked him about that night, the night Dist’s assistant had procured Sync and attempted the same thing so many others had already accomplished. Though Sync remembered it in perfect detail, he refused to share it with Asch. He was a freak, though perhaps a little less useless now, and he wouldn’t put Asch in a worse position.

A few of the other soldiers gave them a wide berth. Sync kept his eyes averted from them.

Ahead, there was a long, low whistle, and Asch raised his hand. Everyone stopped. The caravan rolled to a halt, the horses nickering at each other nervously. Sync shifted in his seat and released Asch’s waist so the redhead could dismount quickly.

Asch headed on foot towards the front, motioning for the rear guard to stay where they were. A few of the men looked completely unconcerned, going as far as to eat a snack while they sat there. Sync frowned at their lack of observation. What would happen if they were attacked? Weren’t they just leaving themselves open?

He fingered the reins and patted Hero’s neck as the horse shook its head. The brown coat shimmered in the light of the midday sun and momentarily, Sync too found himself distracted and enthralled by the rippling of the light. He smiled.

A cry went up and his head whipped to the side just quickly enough to see an arrow strike again in the flesh of the man nearest him. The soldier fell from his horse grasping at the shaft protruding from his neck. Others hurried to dismount, but their enemies were upon them in seconds, killing horses and tearing into any body part that got too close.

Sync’s heart stopped in his chest, his wide eyes taking in the quickly mounting carnage as sword met sword and arrow pierced armor. He didn’t recall dismounting, or when he tied Hero’s reins to the end of the caravan, or when he rushed at the nearest man to him. All he knew was that the soldier at the man’s feet was seconds from having his heart torn out.

The blow to the bandit’s side was enough to knock off his balance, and the man stumbled to the side. Wild brown eyes beneath a shock of bloodied brown hair spun in his head like they had a mind of their own until they rested on Sync. Perfectly white teeth set behind smirking lips had Sync backing away, his hands trembling and eyes wide.

“Hey, lookie here, we got a kid,” the man chuckled. For each step he took, Sync took three back until he was pressed against Hero’s flank.

“Go away,” Sync demanded, trying to take on Asch’s tone of voice and failing miserably. The man, quickly being joined by the rest of his nearby posse, merely laughed. Several others began sneaking up on the soldiers fighting not far off in the distance, shouts and steel ringing in the once peaceful air.

“What’s a kid like you doing out here?” one asked with a raised eyebrow. He leaned down and Sync tried to keep back the fear that made his voice shake.

“Go  _away_!” he snapped and shoved the man back. The bandit dramatically stumbled back, his face a mockery of surprise, and quickly grabbed Sync’s wrist before the boy could pull it back. He squeaked and yanked hard, but the bandit’s grip was impressive.

“Hey, that’s the General’s horse, isn’t it?” one asked from nearby and Sync glared as the man reached for Hero’s nose. “Asch the Bloody’s?”

“What’re you doin’ by the General’s horse, I wonder,” the man gripping Sync’s wrist said with a raised eyebrow. He pulled Sync closer until the boy could smell the other man’s breath. “Did the famed Asch the Bloody go off and have a little bastard of his own?”

He could hear it. Over the fear and the panic and his racing heartbeat, he could hear it: the song, a memory or a comfort or a terror ringing in his mind like a gong. It was so  _loud_ , so overwhelming, but at the same time he felt like it was right, that he was home in its echoing embrace. When he listened to the song and he let it fill his ears, he was no longer afraid.

And in front of him, he no longer saw a threat.

“Take the horse. I’ve got the kid. Kill everyone except the dear General - I have a place in mind for him - under my boot.”

A few men guffawed at the threat, but Sync was no longer capable of hearing it. He didn’t even feel the tightening grip on his arm that made it creak, or the dagger that was pressed to the middle of his throat. He felt  _free_ , a terrifying, wonderful freedom that filled him to the brim, and if he just reached, if he -

but wouldn’t the same thing as before happen? Wouldn’t he kill these men like he had that doctor?

Did he really care? Were their lives worth anything? Here they were, responsible for the deaths of the soldiers that, despite keeping their distance from Sync, had never done him or Asch harm. They likely had killed the villagers living in peace. They were the monsters.

The blade cut in, leaving a thin trickle of red to run down from Sync’s neck to the new clothing Asch had given him for the journey.

“Come on, brat. We don’t have all day.”

This time, when Sync smiled, it wasn’t a child looking out of his eyes. After all, it took a monster to kill a monster.

– – –

Asch stabbed another man through the chest, surprised at the lack of armor and defense that these people insisted on. The leather was of poor quality and barely tied to their bodies, and though they fought viscously they were hardly a threat to well-trained soldiers. Over the din of battle, it was impossible to hear anything beyond the screams of men and the rattles of death and the clang of metal. Anything else was a distraction, and they couldn’t afford a single one.

He stood up tall and quickly surveyed the damage. The wounded had been dragged closer to the wagon, while most had sustained bruises and cuts at the most. They were clearly the victors here, but it didn’t make Asch feel any better. He swiped the blood dripping into his left eye away - shallow cuts to the face bled so much more - and tried to figure out what these bandits had planned. In the near distance he could see the village in question, smoke rising from chimneys. It looked like the place hadn’t even been touched.

“General, we’ve got six wounded, none severely,” reported a soldier nearby. He was holding a prisoner by the hair, the man’s head bowed and hands tied behind his back. Asch glared down at him and watched the man’s shoulders shake. It quickly built into belly-shaking laughter.

“Si-” It was cut off, the swift  _woosh_  of an arrow killing Asch’s soldier before a warning could be raised.

Behind - that had been their plan all along. Asch clenched his hand around his blade and fought with renewed energy. What had they done to the rear defense? Were all of his men dead? Was - 

Sync.  _Sync was still there._

Asch cut a bloody path through the mass of struggling bodies and flashing swords. He killed the archer before the man could let loose another arrow, stabbed a man straight through coming at him with an ax, shoved away a too eager woman wielding a small dagger. He felt nothing of his wounds, only the ache of his arm with every swing, and shouted, “Push them back!” There was really no need for the order, but it seemed to boost his soldiers’ morale. They fought back that much harder.

“Sir! We’ve got this!” a captain shouted as she stabbed a man smoothly through the chest. It was all the encouragement Asch needed to tear off towards the back of the wagon.

Where was the ringleader? He saw only peons, their bodies leaving a gruesome trail. Even from where he stood he could hear screams - his men must have been fighting back still, desperate to defend the back of their little group. He gritted his teeth - if only he’d thought of all the possible attacks, the different tactics they might employ… maybe his men wouldn’t be lying dead.

His foot slipped in blood and wet clothing, and he stumbled rather than ran past the end of the wagon. All around lay the bodies of his men and women, people who had depended on him to see them safely through what was supposed to be a simple mission. Hero nickered at him from where she was safely tied to the back of the wagon, her coat matted with dirt and fresh blood. There was no sign of Sync, not among the dead and certainly not hiding in the wagon. In fact, there were no signs of life at all.

The first scream made him jump and bolt towards it, grass tearing beneath his boots and voices growing louder with each heavy step. He didn’t know where he was going, had no idea where he was, but he saw a barn that lay just outside of the village’s meager wooden fence. If they had harmed the child…

Light burst from the windows, shattering them outwards with a force like a hurricane. Asch felt the shockwave push him back, but he kept moving. If there were fonists among the bandits, he wasn’t going to risk them accidentally letting off an art that destroyed the building around them and their potential prisoners.

Inside more screams were raised, different voices and different genders mixing into one horrible noise that screeched through his head. Asch rushed around the corner and through the barn door that had been nearly thrown off its hinges.

And as he reached his destination, his heart and mind and body froze.

Sync  _danced_. It was almost beautiful - his body bent and flowed like a tree caught in a breeze, flowing and ebbing with the battle. Each kick and strike was backed up by the glowing green lights of fonic attacks, a mix of martial arts and fonic artes - a style completely Sync’s own. Asch stared in awe despite himself, despite the carnage and the death and the stench of bodies.

“Bastard!” shrieked one of the men, the best dressed of the bunch hounding Sync. The boy was not without wounds, though it was hard to see what was his blood and what was the blood of his enemies. Asch forced his legs to move, mentally berating himself for hesitating even a few seconds.

The glow around Sync’s body intensified, and before Asch could get involved, Sync thrust both of his hands outwards and screamed, “Now, you die! Harrowing Gale!”

Winds shrieked around Sync in a small maelstrom that intensified with every heartbeat. Asch fended off the few remaining soldiers who attempted to aid their ally, but they didn’t last long against his blade and the might of the arte that struck everyone in the near vicinity. Asch barely had enough time to dodge back and away, the wind’s cutting edge missing him by inches.

In the center of it all was Sync, flying like a ghostly, terrifying apparition and tearing his enemy apart. The winds slowly started to die down, and the man’s body fell from the air to land with a sickening  _plop_ at Sync’s feet.

Sync raised his head, green-purple hair sticking up in strange angles, and Asch spotted the strained look in those green eyes. He wanted to praise and shake the boy at the same time but found himself instead walking over, around bodies and over limbs, until he could kneel in front of the child staring at him.

“Look at me,” he ordered, and Sync jerked his head to obey. The eyes did not recognize him, nor did he stop glowing. Asch could practically feel the waves of malice and fury pumping through Sync’s veins like a poison, a feeling he knew all too well. “Sync. Look at me.”

The boy stared and finally blinked, once, twice. He swallowed and winced as the action stretched the cut on his neck. Asch tried to hide how heavy his breathing was, how exhausted he suddenly felt. The redhead reached out to cup the back of Sync’s head and drew the boy against his chest. They were both filthy but Asch couldn’t seem to care at the moment. He was too relieved to find the boy alive, if not well.

“Asch?” Sync whispered, and his voice was a croak, weak and hurt.

“Yeah,” Asch said.

“Safe? You safe?”

Asch blinked and allowed himself a tiny smile as he tightened his hug around the boy.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Good,” Sync responded. His voice sounded distant as he whispered, “Good…”

Asch tiredly stood up a few minutes later. Sync was barely on his feet, his legs trembling beneath him, but stubbornly refused to be carried. Instead he walked side by side with Asch, leaving the carnage behind them. Asch wanted to give Sync what he himself hadn’t had - a chance at a normal life, a place away from bloodshed and death, but it seemed Sync was already involved. It was too late to separate his life from this.

“You hurt?” Asch asked as they made their way back towards the wagon. Ahead, Asch could hear the same captain who had told him to check on the others shouting out orders.

“Maybe,” Sync said. “Don’t remember.”

“I’ll take a look when we get back to the wagon,” Asch promised.

The dead bandits were already piled off to the side. Three people, two men and a woman, were bound and gagged off to the side, looking defeated and worn with their shoulders fallen and heads bowed. Their own dead were being gently lay in a row. Each body was soon nothing but ash on the wind, released back to the Planet Storm and Auldrant’s embrace.

“We will take them back for questioning,” the captain was saying as Asch approached. She gave him a tired salute and motioned towards the three. “We managed to take them down without killing them, sir.”

“Well done,” Asch praised. “How many did we lose?”

“All of the rear guard, sir. Mitchel and Carly from the front. We have ten wounded, three severe. All of them have been loaded into the wagon.”

“Good. We need to return to Daath immediately.” He glared at the three bandits. “Load them up too, away from the wounded. Make sure they don’t say a word.”

“Yes, sir.” The captain gave a swift nod and looked over at the other soldiers taking care of minor duties or mourning the dead now scattered. “We leave in five minutes! Form up!”

Asch led Sync back towards Hero. The horse pawed at the ground, but calmed when Sync lay his bloodied hand on her muzzle.

“Good Hero,” he whispered. Asch patted the side of Hero’s neck and sighed.

“Asch,” Sync said and the general looked down at him. “Why is your name ‘Asch the Bloody’?”

Asch raised an eyebrow down at Sync. He paused, trying to think of a good way to answer. He rubbed his forehead and brushed more blood from his face.

“It’s my title,” he said. “Commandant Grants gave it to me when I became a God General.”

“Why ‘Bloody’?” Sync asked. His eyes were on the horse in front of him, his back to Asch.

“Because I’ve killed a lot of people,” Asch said bluntly, “and because of the life I have led.”

Sync’s shoulder’s sagged. When he looked over his shoulder, Asch was shocked to see sadness and - dare he say - understanding written across that young face.

“I sorry, Asch.”

“Don’t apologize for something you didn’t do,” Asch snapped, growing more and more uncomfortable.

Sync didn’t back down, though. Instead he shook his head. “I want Asch to be happy.”

When had - 

Natalia. Luke. Both of them had said something to that affect. Guy and, once upon a time, Asch’s mother and father. The servants. His various nannies and guardians.

No one in the last ten years.

Asch sighed, all of the fight leaving him in the rush of breath, and he moved towards Hero’s saddle. He drew himself up and reached an arm down for Sync, hand open and waiting.

“Come on, let’s go back.”

Sync hesitated, biting his lip as if he was stopping himself from saying more, and only once he made a decision did he grip Asch's hand and allow the general to pull him up. This time he sat in front of Asch and was leaning back on the older man’s chest. His eyes fluttered closed immediately, the familiar warmth and scent even masked by blood comforting.

“I don’t know if I can be,” Asch murmured, and realized he’d spoken out loud. When he glanced to see if Sync had heard him, he found the child passed out. Asch wrapped an arm securely around Sync’s waist and clicked his tongue at Hero. Behind him, the wagon’s wheels began to move, and the scattered horses that had been found were being ridden by those too wounded to walk but strong enough to ride.

“Move out!” he called, and vowed they would return to this village and settle whatever was happening once and for all.

Had Asch looked to his right, he may have seen two figures standing on a rise, watching the military caravan pass by. They disappeared a few moments later, as swift as smoke, returning to the village they had claimed.

When Asch returned with his little protege, they would be ready, and this time, they would not fail.


	10. Stray Decision

“Twelve dead. Three severely wounded. Five more with minor injuries that have already been healed by a fonist.”

“And did you discover where these bandits were coming from?”

“No, sir. The General ordered us to return with due haste.”

Commandant Van Grants nodded and watched the soldier in front of him squirm. Even in his office, which had been decorated to try and seem more inviting, the man could not seem to relax one bit. Van took note of the details the soldier provided in his own report and tapped his finger on his desk. This did not bode well, not at all.

“You are dismissed,” he said, and the soldier gave a sharp, quick salute before rushing out the door.

Van stared at the place the other had just vacated and sighed. It was supposed to be a simple mission, something easy to start Asch and his charge on a similar path, yet something had clearly gone wrong. He did not like surprises, particularly ones he had not foreseen.

“Commandant,” came a woman’s voice, and Van turned to find his second-in-command Legretta with a pile of papers in her arms and a stern look on her face.

“Legretta. Do you have news?”

“I sent a covert team to look over the battlefield. It is as Asch’s report and the soldiers you have spoken with have said - multiple dead and corpses burned, worn boot treads indicating a poorly armed attack. They did mention finding an old, abandoned barn half destroyed by what appeared to be a fonic attack. The bodies there were torn to pieces, left instead of burned.”

“I see. Perhaps our initial information was wrong, then. The village could be the source of the bandits, or these bandits might be better organized than we gave them credit for.” Van ran a hand through his beard. “Either way we need more. Send another team - quietly - to the village and have them investigate. If the citizens of the village are without knowledge of this attack beyond the fear of hearing it, then we will need to expand our search. I highly doubt there is a criminal organization managing to run itself out of Daath, which would mean a base further out, perhaps along the coast.”

“A ship, perhaps?” Legretta suggested. “Though if they were pirates, I would have expected them to be better armed.”

“It is still a possibility. Investigate the village first,” Van ordered. “We will go from there.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Legretta?”

“Yes?”

“Have Asch come to my office.”

– – – – –

Asch stood rigidly in front of Van. He held his head up high and kept his eyes locked on the Commandant, refusing to show any kind of trepidation or uncertainty. After all, of anyone here, Asch knew how Van’s mind worked the best. There were things that he suspected the Commandant of doing yet had no proof aside from his own experiences, and those were tainted with the thoughts of a child. Those memories were faded at best.

 “Asch, welcome back,” Van stated. Asch saluted and returned to his stance. “I have read your report and must say I am surprised so many were lost.”

“We were ambushed - they knew we were coming, though I don’t know how.”

“I see. What did you observe?”

“Their armor was a joke - hardly more than leather slapped together over their chests - but the ones who attacked my rear guard were in much better protection. They were clearly more trained and skilled than the people who attacked us from the front.” Asch saw the subtle twitch of Van’s eyebrow and the deepening of the frown on his mouth. Perhaps, Asch considered, Van was just as confused by the attack as Asch was. “I didn’t see anything in the area that indicated a campsite, but I know we killed at least one of the officers. The man was dressed in the best armor and was shouting out orders.”

“’We’?” Van repeated, that same thick eyebrow raising higher.

“I,” Asch corrected himself. If he didn’t have to involve Sync, all the better.

Van nodded, but he looked unconvinced. He shuffled through some of the papers on his desk and finally stood up when he apparently did not find what he was looking for.

“Once you are recovered, I want you to return to the scene. Bring your subordinate - he should get as much experience as possible if he is to eventually become your second-in-command.”

“What?” Asch demanded, taken completely by surprise.

“The boy - Sync. The one you have kept around.” A smile that gentled Van’s face appeared. “He is learning quickly, if your report is any indication.”

“He’s also a kid who shouldn’t be on the battlefield as a soldier,” Asch argued.

“Clearly he wants to take after you and he can handle himself - he survived this fight around the caravan, did he not?” When Asch only ground his teeth, Van nodded. “I want him to learn from you, Asch, not be kept in the shadows. That is not fair to him either. Give him the opportunities not afforded to him by anyone else. You and I both know he could become a strong soldier.”

 _You know way more than you’re letting on,_  Ash wanted to snarl, but kept it to himself. The file hidden away under his mattress still had depths he had yet to plumb and if Van wanted to keep hidden what he actually knew, so be it. Asch wasn’t willing to expose Sync more than he had to danger.

“Fine,” he snapped, the word stilted and short. Van’s smile only grew and as he passed Asch to open his door, he placed a fatherly hand on Asch’s shoulder.

“He wants to prove himself to you, to the world. Let him.”

Asch stormed out without another word, heading straight for his bedroom. His wounds had been treated by a seventh fonist but everything still ached. He wanted to check on his soldiers but knew most of them were still being healed, so instead he hurried to his own quarters to check on his ‘roommate’.

Sync was curled into the corner of Asch’s bed, sound asleep, when Asch opened the door. The general sighed and glanced at the bed he had brought in for Sync’s use. Inevitably, the child still ended up pressed to Asch’s side in the middle of the night. At least the nightmares had eased somewhat; it had become rarer for Sync to thrash and moan in his sleep, and even when he did, a quick embrace or a push of fingers through his hair was enough to calm him.

Though he could see Sync needed the rest, he also wanted to check and make sure his wounds had all been taken care of. The fonists, they’d discovered, were good with him and had gotten better with every interaction even though they could not use the seventh fonon to heal the child. They had even managed to pull smiles from Sync once in awhile, though Asch was the best at it. He was secretly proud of the feat.

“Sync?” he said quietly, and the little boy groaned and turned away, bundling himself deeper into the blankets.

Asch reached a hand out and hesitated, hovering over Sync’s shoulder. He had seen what the child could do firsthand now. The reminders of what he himself had done to survive had flooded back on their trip home, and his grip had only tightened on the small body in his arms. If that was when Sync was in trouble, what was he capable of when he consciously decided to attack? And was it straining him?

“Asch?” came the soft, groggy voice of the child as Sync rolled over to face Asch. He rubbed his eyes and blinked blearily up into the redhead’s face.

“Hey,” Asch greeted him. “How do you feel?”

Sync flexed his fingers and glanced down at his blanket-covered body. “Tired,” he answered, “achey. It doesn’t hurt bad.”

“Good.” Asch quieted, glancing at the window. Through the curtains he could just make out the fading sunlight as evening approached. Where had the day gone? With everything that had happened in the last few days, he was shocked he hadn’t simply collapsed and slept for a month.

“Asch, you okay?” Sync asked. His little hand hesitated only a moment before it rested over Asch’s wrist.

“I’m fine.”

“Lots of others aren’t okay,” Sync observed. Asch wanted to reach out and wipe away the sadness in those features, but at the same time, it was a lesson Sync needed to learn: life was fleeting. It was important to respect it, always.

“That’s true. We’ll honor their memories with every fight from this point on by surviving. They would have wanted that.”

Sync curled back up under the blankets, his brow furrowed and lips pursed as if deep in thought. “Other people… can they do what I do?”

“Yes, or at least, similar to what you can do. Remember the artes we were practicing? That’s what they could do.”

“But not the big winds?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

Sync nodded. “I wanna learn. I wanna be better. So nobody else has to go.”

Asch tilted his head. “So you want to become a soldier?”

“I wanna be like Asch.”

The redhead winced, though Sync clearly missed it. He knew Sync looked up to him, but Asch had his own demons and past to contend with. No one should’ve aspired to be like him, least of all this small child, and especially with the destiny that likely awaited him. It had been awhile since he last berated himself for allowing this kid into his life. Even now, he couldn’t believe he’d done it. But… he was glad for Sync’s presence.

“Get some rest,” Asch said and poked Sync’s shoulder pointedly. The boy glared from where he was curled up, but as Asch pulled the blanket higher on Sync’s shoulder, the child relaxed. “If you really want to become a better soldier… I’ll teach you. What you do with that information will be up to you.”

Sync sleepily nodded and let out a long breath. “I’ll be good.”

As the child drifted off to sleep, Asch lay down beside him and felt the little body against his back. His own eyes started to close almost immediately, but he whispered, “That’s what I’m afraid of,” into the empty room and found it too had no answers. He wasn’t about to hand Sync over to Van like a lamb to the slaughter, but Sync wanted to learn. Asch couldn’t keep that from the kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the sporadic updates! As it turns out I forgot to release the last chapter (oops~) and realized it only the other day. Here's another new chapter~


End file.
